/t  h 


LIBRARY 

OK  THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GrlF^r  OF" 


Deceived 
Accessions  No.  ^-77       Chns  No. 


SEBASTIAN 


A  DRAMATIC  POEM 


BUFFALO 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 
1894 


HfilN 


DRAMATIS  PERSONAE. 

SEBASTIAN. 

LALAGE. 

POLYCARP,  an  old  man,  husband  to  Lalage. 

ANTONIO,    ) 

FELIX          I      Friends  to  Sebastian. 

OROSIUS,         ) 

PETRONIUS,     I      Professors  in  the  University. 

A  PRIEST. 


TJSI7BESIT7 


SEBASTIAN. 


SCENE  I. 

Sebastian  Alone.     Enter  Priest. 
PRIEST. 
Good  morning,  son. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Good  morning,  holy  father,  pray 
Be  seated. 

PRIEST. 
How  is  my  son  to-day  ? 

SEBASTIAN. 

Why,  well,  your  reverence,  well  as  one  can  be 
Wrapped  in  the  shadow  of  so  great  a  grief. 

PRIEST. 

I  would,  my  son,  point  out  the  one  relief. 
There  is  but  One  who  can  give  consolation, 
There  is  but  One  with  power  to  lift  us  up, 
Sweetening  the  contents  of  the  bitter  cup, 
And  bringing  peace  to  those  in  desolation. 
Hast  thou  sought  aid  from  him  ? 


6  Sebastian. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  have,  my  father,  but  the  cup  of  woe 
Is  full  even  to  the  brim, 
And  peace  I  have  not  found. 

PRIEST. 

Dispair  not,  son,  the  Holy  One  was  crowned 
With  thorns,  and  bent  beneath  the  cruel  blow; 
Yea,  perished  on  the  cross  that  we  might  gain 
Our  soul's  salvation.     Shall  we  then  complain, 
We  who  have  suffered  so  much  less  than  He  ? 

SEBASTIAN. 

Oh  !  father,  father,  I  recall  so  well 
My  days  of  childhood,  when  I  sought  God' s  shrine 
With  my  poor  sainted  mother,  and  when  we 
Knelt  down  in  prayer  together.     Then  was  mine 
The  ecstacy  of  faith.     The  deep  toned-bell 
Rang  from  the  lofty  spire  as  an  appeal 
Of  God  to  men,  and  at  each  mighty  stroke 
New  raptures  in  my  thrilling  breast  awoke. 
The  incense  floated  on  the  mystic  air, 
And  music  seemed  from  heaven  itself  to  steal 
In  scarce  heard  accents,  then  to  swell  and  swell, 
Resounding  through  the  aisles,  dim  lighted,  vast, 
And  through  the  pointed  arches  far  above. 
My  soul  was  filled  with  ecstacy  of  prayer, 
And  seemed  to  float  away  on  wings  of  love 
Even  till  the  bounds  of  this  poor  earth  were  passed, 


A  JDramatic  Poem. 

And  I  could  almost  see  the  gates  of  heaven. 

And  when  amid  the  perfumed  clouds  that  curled 

From  swinging  censers  and  the  awful  hush 

Of  kneeling  worshipers  was  lifted  up 

The  blood  of  Him  whose  life  for  us  was  given 

I  felt  my  soul  borne  upward  from  this  world; 

And  gazing  fervently  upon  the  cup 

Of  blood-changed  wine  I  felt  the  burning  gush 

Of  tears  that  flowed  from  my  rapt  upturned  eyes 

In  gratitude  to  Him  who  Paradise 

And  all  its  joys  had  left  to  save  my  soul. 

Then  Faith  dwelt  undisturbed  within  my  breast, 

But  later  Doubt  a  furtive  entrance  stole, 

And  now  hath  almost  pushed  her  from  the  nest. 

When  in  the  sacred  shrine  I  stand  again 

And  hear  again  the  organ's  awful  roll, 

The  ancient  impulse  doth  again  return, 

And  for  the  spirit-life  again  I  yearn. 

But  Doubt  comes  back,  and  with  a  leaden  chain 

Doth  check  my  spirit's  flight.     My  soul  aspires 

To  the  Ideal,  to  bright  realms  above 

Bathed  in  the  radiance  of  celestial  love. 

At  times  I  seem  to  hear  the  angel  quires 

Singing  the  praise  of  Him  to  whom  the  earth 

Is  but  a  footstool,  but  the  song  expires 

In  slowly  fading  accents.     Since  the  woe 

That  robbed  me  of  the  man  who  gave  me  birth, 

I  strive  in  vain  to  hear  the  heavenly  song; 


JHI72B3ITT 


8  Sebastian. 

My  feeble  soul  has  sunk  beneath  the  blow, 
All  vanished  from  my  sight  the  Seraph  throng. 

PRIEST. 

My  son,  to  the  ideal  ever  cling. 
That  only  keeps  the  soul  above  the  mire 
Of  common  earth.     Still  let  thy  soul  aspire, 
Soaring  toward  heaven  on  wide-extended  wing. 
The  part  of  man  that  lifts  him  from  the  brutes, 
That  makes  him  worthily  the  son  of  God, 
Till  he  can  comprehend  God's  attributes, 
Can  follow  where  the  blest  apostles  trod, 
It  is  the  soul,  the  love  of  the  ideal, 
The  love  of  something  better  than  the  real, 
The  aspiration  toward  a  higher  sphere 
Than  is  vouchsafed  to  man  while  dwelling  here. 
Cling  still  to  that,  my  son,  and  when  thou  feelest 
The  light  within  grow  faint,  kneel  down  in  prayer, 
And  He  to  whom  in  vain  thou  ne'er  appealest 
In  thy  dim  lighted  closet  will  be  there. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Father,  last  night  I  watched  beside  the  bier 
Of  him  I  loved  so  well.     Upon  my  knees, 
In  agony  of  grief,  with  many  a  tear, 
I  turned  to  God  with  supplicating  pleas, 
Praying  most  earnestly  for  the  repose 
Of  his  great  soul,  and  that  I  might  not  be 
Unworthy  of  his  virtues.     Then  I  arose 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  9 

As  the  gray  dawn  was  breaking,  but  I  found 

No  angel  band  had  come  to  comfort  me, 

No  peace  within  the  chambers  of  my  breast 

But  only  sorrow,  bitter  and  profound, 

My  soul  dragged  down  to  earth  and  sore  oppressed. 

My  spirit  soared  not  heavenward  on  the  wings 

Of  that  long,  tortured  prayer,  but  dull  as  lead, 

To  earthly  pain  and  grief  alone  it  clings, 

To  hopeless  mourning  for  the  noble  dead. 

PRIEST. 

My  son,  'tis  often  thus.     Man's  soul  is  weak, 
And  often  sinks  beneath  the  weight  of  pain; 
But  God  still  reigns,  and  if  His  throne  we  seek 
With  steadfast  purpose  it  is  found  again. 
Be  not  discouraged;    turn  again  to  Him, 
He  is  not  deaf,  thy  prayer  will  yet  be  heard; 
And  He  will  take  away,  oh,  trust  His  word, 
The  bitter  cup  now  full  unto  the  brim. 
But  now,  my  son,  I  must  perforce  depart; 
God's  blessing  rest  with  thee,  His  peace  be  in  thy  heart. 

SCENE  II. 

Sebastian.     Enter  Orosius  and  Petronius. 
SEBASTIAN. 

Why,  enter,  learned  sirs,  in  truth  I  deem 
Myself  much  honored  by  your  presence  here. 


io  Sebastian. 

OROSIUS. 

Thy  father  was  a  friend  held  ever  dear, 
And  one  of  highest  ranks  in  our  esteem. 
We  therefore  haste  to  call  upon  his  son 
And  to  express  our  sorrow  for  thy  loss. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  thank  you  honored  sirs,  most  kindly  it  is  done. 

When  man's  weak  spirit  bends  beneath  the  cross 

The  sympathy  of  others  buoys  him  up, 

And  helps  him  bear  his  burden.     Deeply  then 

I  thank  you  for  a  kindness  rare  in  men 

Of  such  distinction.     'Tis  the  hour  to  sup, 

And  I  entreat  you,  come  into  the  hall 

Now  left  so  desolate  since  he  is  gone, 

And  there  I  trust  ye  gently  will  recall 

His  many  virtues,  and  will  tell  me  all 

Ye  can  of  him. 

OROSIUS. 

To  this  we  both  are  drawn 
By  loving  recollection  of  the  days 
Of  close  companionship.     To  speak  the  praise 
Of  those  whose  souls  have  passed  beyond  the  reach 
Of  mortal  envy  is  a  pleasing  thing 
Even  to  the  jealous.     Gladly  then  our  speech 
Will  turn  to  him,  for  pleasing  memories  spring 
At  slightest  thought  of  him. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  n 

SEBASTIAN. 

Be  seated,  sirs,  and  let  this  ancient  wine 
In  which  so  oft  your  friendship  he  has  pledged, 
Pressed  in  his  boyhood  from  the  purple  vine, 
Be  poured,  a  sad  libation  to  his  shade. 
I  do  esteem  myself  most  privileged 
To  speak  of  him  with  you. 

PETRONIUS. 

And  'tis  to  us  a  pleasure 
To  talk  with  thee,  who,  now  that  he  is  laid 
In  lasting  sleep,  dost  hold  his  honored  place. 

SEBASTIAN. 

But  so  unworthily.     I  know  the  measure 
Of  his  high  virtues  I  can  never  fill. 
He  was  so  calm,  of  such  unbending  will, 
So  self  contained,  of  such  majestic  grace, 
While  I  am  ever  weakly  passionate. 

PETRONIUS. 

Thou  only  comprehendest  him  when  he 
Was  well  advanced  in  honors  and  in  years, 
When  through  experience  and  bitter  tears 
He  had  acquired  the  strength  to  dominate 
His  bosom's  weakness.     But  'tis  long  that  we 
Were  his  companions,  and  in  days  of  youth 
He  was  much  as  thou  seemest  now,  in  truth. 
He  then  was  passionate  and  overbold, 


1 2  Sebastian. 

Loving  intensely,  somewhat  quick  to  anger, 
A  spirit  much  too  strong  to  be  controlled, 
Fervid  in  action,  yielding  then  to  languor, 
And  loving  dalliance  when  the  task  was  done. 
In  short,  he  then  was  young,  and  he  was  one 
To  lead  in  all  things,  whether  good  or  ill. 
'Twas  years  perfected  him  ;  the  flight  of  time, 
Labor,  endurance,  sorrow,  even  sin, 
Had  raised  him  up  unto  those  heights  sublime 
Where  man  his  highest  mission  may  fulfill. 

SEBASTIAN. 
Sin  !  what  meanest  thou  ? 

PETRONIUS. 

'Twas  sin  I  meant. 
He  was  no  painted  saint  upon  a  wall, 
He  was  a  man  ;  he  proudly  entered  in, 
And  plucked  the  fruit  of  knowledge  with  resolve 
To  be  in  all  a  man,  to  know  it  all, 
And  drain  the  cup  of  mortal  bliss  and  pain. 
And  know,  young  man,  that,  sad  as  'tis  to  say, 
Sin  is  a  path  by  which  we  oft  attain 
That  knowledge  of  ourselves  that  points  the  way 
To  self-control  and  wisdom  which  absolve 
By  noble  deeds  the  errors  of  the  past. 
Think' st  thou  that  Adam  ere  he  was  out  cast 
From  Paradise  was  much  above  the  brute  ? 
At  most  he  was  a  child  whose  innocence 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  13 

Was  want  of  knowledge,  guiltless  of  offence 
But  as  a  soulless  creature.     When  the  fruit 
Forbidden  he  had  plucked  he  then  became 
A  man,  he  comprehended  right  from  wrong, 
And  when  towards  noble  ends  with  spirit  strong 
And  earnest  love  of  good  and  steadfast  aim 
He  struggled  on,  he  first  became  divine. 
Such  was  thy  father.     In  his  youth's  hot  glow 
He  plucked  forbidden  fruit,  and  largely  drank 
Of  all  the  pleasures  nature  can  bestow, 
And  drained  unto  the  lees  life's  ruddy  wine. 
But  though  he  sinned,  his  spirit  never  sank, 
Never  became  contaminate  and  vile, 
And  knowing  all,  he  chose  the  better  part, 
Cleaving  to  that  with  great  and  steadfast  heart. 

OROSIUS. 

Too  much  thou  dost  exalt  the  power  for  good 
That  sometimes  lies  in  sin.     When  men  defile 
Their  souls  with  sinning,  they  instead  but  find 
That  they  have  lost  the  ardent,  lofty  mind 
Bearing  them  upward,  that  it  drags  them  down 
Into  the  mire,  till  when  at  length  they  would 
Yet  save  themselves  they  find  the  effort  vain 
And  in  the  slough  of  vice  dishonored  drown. 
'Tis  true  that  knowledge  is  a  gem  of  price, 
But  woe  to  him  who  seeketh  it  in  vice. 


14  Sebastian. 

PETRONIUS. 

'Twas  sin  I  said,  not  vice,  and  I  admit 
That  they  are  few  who  are  not  wrecked  by  it ; 
But  they  the  noblest  are  of  all  our  race 
Who  have  looked  earth's  temptations  in  the  face, 
Have  viewed  the  vales  of  sweetest  dalliance, 
Then  turned  their  backs,  determined  to  advance 
Upon  the  upward  path.     They  have  a  force, 
A  comprehension  of  all  mortal  things, 
Enabling  them  to  move  upon  their  course 
With  more  majestic  stride  than  he  who  clings 
Too  much  to  thoughts  of  timid  purity. 
I  do  not  mean  your  father  had  committed 
Faults  worthy  lasting  blame,  but  benefited 
By  close  acquaintance  with  all  human  things 
He  had  attained  a  grand  maturity 
That  fitted  him  to  be  the  surest  guide 
Through  all  the  perils  that  in  life  betide. 

OROSIUS. 

I  deem  thee  still  at  fault,  nor  can  believe 
That  sin  can  aid  man's  true  development. 
'Tis  sorrow  bringeth  strength,  self-government 
And  deep  reflection.     Not  in  vain  we  grieve. 
Repentance  sometimes  follows  after  sin, 
And  with  it  sorrow,  and  we  thus  may  gain 
Some  good  from  guilt,  but  vaster  far  the  loss. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  15 

PETRONIUS. 

Knowledge  of  life  and  sorrow  are  the  things 

Essential  to  man's  greatness.     These  sin  brings 

To  those  repenting  deeply.     When  the  dross 

Is  melted  all  away,  the  metal  shines 

Far  brighter  than  when  virgin  from  the  mines. 

If  in  the  crucible  we  cast  coarse  stone, 

It  cracks  and  bursts  and  crumbles  into  dust, 

But  if  instead  auriferous  ore  is  thrown 

The  pure  gold  issues  undefiled  by  rust. 

So  'tis  with  men;  temptation  wrecks  the  base, 

But  elevates  the  noble. 

OROSIUS. 

Still  I  think 

Thou  art  in  error.     We  receive  the  soul 
Pure  from  its  Maker.     It  should  ever  shrink 
From  all  contamination,  lest  the  trace 
Be  left  upon  its  garments.     So  they  taught, 
The  mighty  ones  of  old  who  deeply  thought, 
Teaching  the  wisdom  of  true  self-control. 
And  now,  Sebastian,  let  me  say  to  thee 
That  in  this  time  of  sorrow  thou  wilt  find 
Much  in  the  ancient  writings  to  console 
The  grief  that  prays  upon  thy  troubled  mind. 
And  three  especially  I  recommend: 
The  bondman  Epictetus  who  beneath 
The  slave's  coarse  garments  and  the  bloody  lash 


1 6  Sebastian. 

• 

Maintained  a  lofty  soul  that  would  not  bend, 

A  spirit  still  erect  and  grandly  free; 

And  him  who  sadly  wore  the  victor's  wreath, 

And  knew  of  empire  nothing  but  its  cares, 

The  student  passing  life  amid  the  clash 

Of  hostile  armies  and  perfidious  snares, 

The  last,  the  purest,  noblest  Antonine 

Whose  death  marked  the  beginning  of  decline 

For  the  bright  glory  of  imperial  Rome; 

Then  Seneca,  whose  prosperous  life  was  spent 

In  wealth  and  office,  but  who  met  his  fate 

With  dauntless  courage  when  the  tyrant  sent 

The  messenger  of  death.     Now  cultivate 

Acquaintance  with  these  three.     The  ancient  tome 

Take  from  the  shelf,  and  thou  wilt  find  relief 

Within  its  pages  in  this  hour  of  grief. 

From  them  who,  whether  on  the  dizzy  throne 

To  which  the  supplicating  nations  bowed, 

Or  fed  along  with  dogs  upon  a  bone, 

A  slave  unnoticed  mid  the  servile  crowd, 

Maintained  the  spotless  candor  of  the  soul 

Thou  wilt  find  much  to  strengthen  and  console. 

SEBASTIAN. 

These  have  I  noticed  on  my  father's  shelves, 
And  somewhat  through  their  pages  I  have  glanced, 
Reading  how  men  should  fortify  themselves 
By  inward  calm  against  external  wrong. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  17 

Yet  in  this  hour  of  grief  I  have  not  chanced 
To  think  of  them;  but  now  at  thy  suggestion 
I  will  go  seek  them,  and  I  make  no  question 
They  will  assist  me  to  be  calm  and  strong. 

PETRONIUS. 

There  are  no  nobler  writers  than  those  three, 

None  who  in  moments  of  adversity 

Bring  truer  comfort  to  the  troubled  soul, 

And  thou  wilt  find  in  them  much  consolation; 

But  when  thou  hast  recovered  self-control, 

Thou  wouldst  do  well  to  seek  for  recreation 

In  other  reading.     While  the  stoic  school 

Surpasses  all  in  teaching  man  to  rule 

His  inner  weakness,  yet  'tis  suited  better 

To  those  who  suffer  than  to  those  who  act. 

When  Roman  tyrants  sought  men's  minds  to  fetter 

As  they  had  bound  their  bodies  to  the  rack, 

The  stoic  shone  supremely,  proudly  great. 

But  for  the  time  of  action  'tis  not  fit. 

The  Epicurean  Caesar  far  surpassed 

Cato  in  power  to  wreck  or  save  the  state. 

The  stoic  thinks  too  much  about  the  last 

Sad  hour  of  life  to  view  the  rest  aright. 

He  scorns  too  much  our  short  but  keen  delight. 

In  black  for  him  the  book  of  life  is  writ. 

Too  much  the  stoic  broods;  he  can  not  mingle 

Well  with  the  world,  and  shape  it  to  his  ends. 


1 8  Sebastian. 

Not  in  seclusion  does  a  man  attain 

His  full  development.     When  he  contends 

In  life's  fierce  conflict,  then  it  is  his  brain 

Acquires  a  disciplined  and  supple  force 

Impossible  to  him  who  dwelleth  single, 

Nor  mixes  with  his  fellows.     Life  should  be 

Active  and  vigilant.     The  sad  recluse 

Whose  days  are  spent  in  striving  to  maintain 

His  own  soul's  purity  from  contact  coarse 

With  men  of  baser  nature  is  not  he 

Who  best  fulfils  man's  mission.     Ships  that  rest 

Forever  in  the  haven  may  be  clean, 

But  are  of  little  use;  while  those  that  breast 

The  foaming  billows  of  the  raging  main, 

Struggling  with  desperate  courage  'gainst  the  storm, 

Though  they  with  shattered  rigging  may  careen 

Before  the  tempest's  fury  yet  conform 

To  their  true  purpose.     For  the  hour  of  sorrow 

The  stoic's  sad  philosophy  is  best. 

From  its  stern  tenets  we  the  strength  may  borrow 

To  meet  the  worst;  but  'tis  not  well  to  choose 

That  system  for  the  guidance  of  our  lives. 

To  suffer  well  is  much,  but  he  who  strives 

With  earnest  resolution  is  the  man 

Who  doth  discharge  his  duties  best.     In  action 

Should  life  be  passed,  and  not  in  vain  abstraction. 

OROSIUS. 
Again  we  differ,  and  it  seem  we  can 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  19 

In  naught  agree.     To  me  it  seemeth  clear 
The  stoic  with  his  constant  fortitude 
And  self-dominion,  of  a  mind  imbued 
With  earnest  principles,  for  a  career 
Of  active  effort  is  the  best  prepared. 

PETRONIUS. 

The  trouble  is  the  stoics  have  not  cared 
Sufficiently  for  life  to  pass  it  so. 

OROSIUS. 

Well,  now  'tis  growing  late;  'tis  time  to  go. 
Bend  not  Sebastian,  'neath  the  weight  of  woe. 
Within  brief  space  we  shall  again  be  here; 
Well  in  the  meantime  mayest  thou  have  fared. 

SCENE  III. 

Sebastian  alone  in  the  library. 
SEBASTIAN. 

My  books,  ye  mock  me  as  ye  there  are  ranged 
In  comely  order  on  the  painted  shelves, 
Purple  and  red  and  green  and  funeral  black. 
What  is  your  lesson  ?  I  have  read  and  read 
Until  my  soul  was  sick,  my  eyes  were  seared, 
And  I  have  seen  the  wretchedness  of  man 
Even  from  the  day  when  first  to  earth  he  came, 
Struggling  for  life  with  monsters  that  are  dead, 


2o  Sebastian. 

Until  this  hour,  when,  polished,  civilized, 
He  strolls  through  palaces  and  marble  halls. 
Yea,  I  have  read  and  poured  into  your  depths, 
But  ye  are  powerless  to  satisfy 
The  craving  for  I  know  not  what  that  burns 
Ceaseless  within  my  soul,  the  discontent, 
The  restless  weariness  of  mortal  things, 
The  aspiration  toward  an  unknown  goal, 
The  unnamed  longings  that  disturb  my  peace. 
And  there  are  times  when  I  would  burn  you  all, 
And  wander,  Cain  like,  through  the  desert  waste, 
Free  from  the  trammels  of  our  modern  life, 
A  savage  with  my  hand  'gainst  every  man, 
Seeking  in  blood  and  conflicts  and  in  wild 
Indulgence  of  all  passions  to  forget 
The  emptiness  of  life.     And  there  are  times 
When  I  do  love  you  as  my  children  fair, 
Turning  your  pages  with  intense  delight, 
Finding  each  craving  satisfied  in  you. 
And  then  the  mood  is  changed,  and  ye  but  mock 
The  restlessness  that  grows  within  my  breast, 
When  even  the  mighty  poets  can  not  bring, 
With  all  their  beauty,  passion,  and  distress, 
Content  to  me  who  read.     Oh  happy  they 
Who  are  not  tortured  by  this  ceaseless  strife, 
This  fondness  for  all  learning,  and  this  love 
For  that  which  learning  never  can  supply. 
And  now  to-night  ye  mock  me  bitterly. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  21 

Ye  have  no  message  for  my  troubled  soul. 
Ye  can  not  satisfy  the  wild  desires, 
The  yearnings  for  a  something  all  unknown, 
For  life  more  passionate  and  more  intense, 
For  pleasure  fierce  and  agonizing  pain, 
That  struggle  in  my  heart.     Ye  mock  me  now, 
And  I  would  leave  you  and  would  wander  forth 
I  know  not  where  —  alas,  I  know  not  where. 

A  knock.     Come  in! 

Enter  Antonio  and  Felix. 

Why,  can  it  be  ? 
Why,  I  am  truly  glad  to  see 
You  once  again  my  worthy  friends. 

ANTONIO. 

But  just  returned,  we  visit  you 
Whom  we  are  told  now  make  amends 
In  constant  study  for  the  days 
Once  spent  in  very  different  ways. 

SEBASTIAN. 

That  I  have  greatly  changed  is  true. 
The  awful  loss  I  have  sustained 
Has  altered  me.     But  whence  come  you  ? 

ANTONIO. 

Felix  from  Rome,  from  Paris  I. 
Five  years  at  Rome  has  he  remained 


22  Sebastian. 

In  constant  study  of  his  art, 
While  I  have  lived  right  merrily 
In  Paris,  Mammon's  matchless  mart. 
With  deepest  sorrow  we  have  learned 
Of  your  affliction.     Scarce  returned, 
We  come  with  friendly  sympathy 
To  clasp  your  hand  and  to  express 
Our  sorrow  at  your  deep  distress. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  thank  you,  friends;  you  understand 
How  great  my  grief,  because  you  knew 
My  father  and  how  kind  and  true 
He  ever  was. 

ANTONIO. 

Most  truly  grand; 

Thoughtful  and  proud,  he  seemed  to  spurn 
Men's  weaknesses;  a  little  stern 
His  countenance  until  he  smiled, 
And  then  it  beamed  so  sweet  and  mild, 
He  seemed  transfigured. 

FELIX. 

I  remember 

Only  the  smile.     When  I  was  poor 
I  sat  one  day  in  bleak  December 
In  my  bare  room  with  immature, 
Uncertain  efforts  to  give  form 


A  Dramatic  Poem. 

To  my  conceptions.     Fierce  the  storm 

Outside  was  raging.     Hungry,  cold, 

My  fingers  numb,  I  strove  in  vain 

To  give  them  shape,  and  from  my  hold 

The  pencil  slipped.     In  blank  dispair 

I  sat  while  through  my  dizzy  brain 

Visions  of  penury  and  pain 

Were  floating     Then  upon  the  stair 

There  was  a  step,  and  he  came  in. 

I  only  knew  him  as  a  man 

Of  highest  place,  and  when  within 

My  garret  I  beheld  him,  I 

Was  scared.     He  spoke,  and  then  began 

My  poor  unfinished  sketch  to  scan. 

Long  looked  he,  then  he  laid  it  by 

To  see  my  pictures  on  the  wall. 

Right  closely  he  examined  all, 

Then  turned  and  said,  ' '  These  plainly  show 

That  you  have  talent,  but  you  need 

Instruction.     You  must  learn  to  know 

The  masters'  works,  and  to  succeed 

The  technic  skill  you  must  acquire. 

To-morrow  morning  come  and  see 

My  pictures,  and  they  will  inspire 

A  just  ambition,  and  then  we 

Will  talk  about  your  future.     I 

Meanwhile  this  Magdalen  will  buy." 

And  then  he  laid  upon  the  table 


24  Sebastian. 

A  little  pile  of  coined  gold, 
The  picture's  price  a  thousand  fold. 
All  overcome,  I  scarce  was  able 
To  speak  and  earnestly  protest 
Against  such  payment,  but  he  pressed 
My  hand  and  said,  '  *  Just  now  perhaps 
The  picture  is  not  worth  the  sum, 
But  when  the  fleeting  years  shall  lapse, 
And  days  of  honored  fame  shall  come, 
It  will  be  precious."   Saying  so, 
He  kindly  smiled  and  turned  to  go. 

Next  morning  I  myself  presented 
All  awed  and  timid  at  his  door, 
The  rich-carved  pannels  studying  o'er; 
And  of  my  boldness  near  repented 
When  I  was  led  through  lofty  halls 
With  richest  hangings  on  the  walls. 
At  length  I  stood  abashed  before 
Your  father,  but  he  welcomed  me 
As  one  that  he  was  glad  to  see. 
He  led  me  to  his  gallery 
Where  there  were  many  pictures  wrought 
By  master  hands.     I  had  not  thought 
Such  things  existed,  had  not  dreamed 
Of  beauty  such  as  on  me  beamed 
In  that  enchanted  shrine.     My  soul 
Was  filled  with  ecstacy.     I  gazed 
In  rapt  attention,  all  amazed, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  25 


And  free  among  those  gems  to  stroll. 
When  I  had  looked  till  I  was  drunk 
With  beauty,  he  conducted  me 
Into  the  dining  hall.     I  shrunk 
From  such  magnificence,  but  he 
Bade  me  be  seated.     Then  he  planned 
My  course  of  study,  and  declared 
The  means  should  be  at  my  command. 
Now  all  I  am,  all  I  may  be 
Is  due  to  him.     He  has  not  spared 
Money,  kind  wishes  nor  advice. 
Judge  then  my  agony  of  woe 
To  learn  his  death.     Beneath  the  blow 
My  spirit  sank.     I  knew  his  price, 
And  knew  full  well  I  never  should 
Another  see  so  great  and  good. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  knew  not  this.     Since  we  were  boys, 
And  shared  our  little  pains  and  joys 
I  only  knew  you  had  devoted 
Yourself  to  art,  that  you  were  noted 
For  pictures  in  the  sacred  vein 
Which,  as  men  say,  almost  attain 
To  Raphael's  heavenly  purity. 
But  every  day  I  hear  of  deeds 
Of  kindness  by  my  father  done, 
And  oft  I  know  he  planted  seeds 


26  Sebastian. 

That  later  blossomed  in  the  sun 

To  flowers  of  sweetest  rarity. 

He  was  indeed  a  noble  tree 

That  sheltered  many  'neath  its  shade. 

FELIX. 

From  what  I  learn  you  seem  to  be 

Absorbed  in  study.     I'm  afraid 

These  musty  books  will  not  console. 

For  something  sweeter  pines  the  soul. 

Art  only  brings  unto  the  heart 

A  comfort  that  will  not  depart. 

Come  with  me  back  to  Rome,  to  Florence  come, 

And  you  will  stand  transfixed  and  dumb 

Before  their  treasures.     'Tis  the  land 

Of  Italy  that  bringeth  balm 

To  troubled  hearts  and  rest  and  calm. 

Come,  let  us  seek  its  golden  strand. 

Comfort  is  in  its  balsamed  air 

And  in  its  scenes  so  soft  and  fair, 

Its  landscapes  bathed  in  mellow  light, 

Its  azure  skies  serenely  bright, 

The  gentle  contours  of  its  hills, 

Its  verdant  vales  where  rippling  rills 

Allure  to  peaceful  meditation 

And  whisper  sweetest  consolation. 

Come,  we  will  visit  churches  old 

Encrusted  all  with  gleaming  gold, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  27 

With  grand  old  pictures  on  the  walls 

Whose  beauty  every  sense  enthralls. 

Giotto  is  there,  a  genius  fresh 

As  morning  breezes,  wholesome,  strong 

In  faith,  with  sympathetic  brush 

Painting  alike  the  angel  throng 

And  gentle  creatures  of  the  fields. 

And  Fra  Angelico,  who  wields 

A  pencil  dipped  in  heavens  own  light, 

Showing  in  colors  fair  and  bright 

The  very  scenes  of  Paradise, 

His  faces  wrapped  in  ecstacy, 

With  softly  beaming  upturned  eyes, 

Adoring  God's  sweet  majesty. 

And  Perugino's  charming  faces 

Where  sweetness  glows  with  piety, 

And  loving  soft  humility; 

And  Botticelli's  subtle  graces, 

Bartolomeo's  earnest  art; 

And  he,  the  prince  without  a  peer, 

Whose  greatness  has  no  counterpart, 

Surpassing  sweet,  yet  grand,  sublime, 

The  chiefest  master  of  all  time, 

In  all  his  glory  will  appear. 

To  Italy,  oh,  come  with  me, 

'Tis  there  from  grief  you  will  be  free. 

SEBASTIAN. 
Since  boyhood's  days  my  soul  has  yearned 


28  Sebastian. 

For  that  fair  land  and  in  my  breast 
The  wish  to  visit  it  has  burned, 
And  robbed  me  often  of  my  rest. 
I  will  not  longer  now  delay, 
But  soon  together  we'll  away. 

ANTONIO. 

Felix  is  right.     It  is  distraction 

That  most  you  need,  and  great  attraction 

Has  Italy  for  all  of  those 

Who  seek  instruction  or  repose. 

But  Felix'  views  are  far  from  mine 

On  that  which  Italy  contains 

Deserving  of  our  care  and  pains. 

'  Tis  true  I  do  not  like  her  wine, 

But  she  has  women  passing  fair 

Possessed  of  forms  of  perfect  mould, 

Worthy  the  goddesses  of  old, 

With  rounded  limbs  and  bosoms  rare 

Would  make  St.  Anthony's  self  grow  bold. 

Forms  so  voluptuous  scarce  are  seen 

Outside  that  land,  of  earth  the  queen. 

And  as  for  art,  those  vapid  saints 

Angelico  or  Giotto  paints, 

Who  '  neath  their  garments  have  no  limbs, 

And  can  do  nothing  but  sing  hyms, 

Mere  putty  dolls  that  know  not  passion, 

And  simper  in  a  saintly  fashion, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  29 

The  true  Renaissance  they  are  not. 

That  was  the  gladsome  strong  upheaval 

Of  men  rejoicing  in  the  light, 

Escaping  from  the  bitter  night 

Of  long,  sad  ages  mediaeval, 

And  wakening  to  a  happier  lot. 

It  was  a  re-discovery 

Of  man's  essential  dignity 

And  of  the  beauty  of  this  earth, 

Its  love  and  hope,  its  joy  and  mirth. 

It  was  a  wakening  to  the  bliss 

Of  carnal  life,  of  amorous  kiss, 

Of  woman's  rich  voluptuous  charms, 

Of  plastic  limbs  and  snowy  arms, 

A  glad  return  to  ancient  ways, 

A  yearning  for  the  joyous  days 

When  earth  was  young  and  men  were  glad, 

Nor  fear  of  hell  had  made  them  sad, 

When  men  lived  blithely  'neath  the  sun, 

Loving  earth's  beauty  and  its  pleasure, 

Rejoicing  in  abundant  measure, 

Nor  deeming  joy  and  sin  were  one. 

Such  the  Renaissance.     Those  you  name, 

Save  only  Raphael  are  in  soul 

Still  of  the  Middle  Age;  the  same 

Blind  piety,  although  control 

Of  skill  artistic  they've  acquired 

In  some  degree;  they  remnants  are 


30  Sebastian. 

Of  darker  ages,  and  they  jar 
Upon  the  gay  Renaissance  life. 
By  other  dreams  they  are  inspired, 
And  with  its  spirit  are  at  strife. 
The  things  that  Italy  contains 
Most  worthy  of  our  care  and  pains 
Are  works  in  which  the  human  form 
Stands  forth  before  us  fresh  and  warm, 
Painted  by  Titian  or  Veronese, 
Tintoret  or  Palma  Vecchio, 
Or  other  master  hands;  yes,  these, 
And  those  bright  relics  of  the  time 
Of  Grecian  life  which  clearly  show 
How  fair  her  art  and  how  sublime. 

FELIX. 

Too  much  the  outward  you  esteem, 
The  truer  life  is  that  within; 
And  in  those  upturned  faces  beam 
Pure  gentle  souls  that  know  not  sin. 
As  to  the  soul  the  body  yields 
In  dignity,  so  he  who  paints 
The  souls  of  sinners  or  of  saints, 
Yea,  of  the  woodlands  and  the  fields, 
Is  the  true  artist,  and  not  he 
Who  reproduces  faithfully 
The  outward  form,  but  can  not  give 
Our  souls,  which  only  truly  live. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  31 

ANTONIO. 

Oh  Felix,  we  can  ne'er  agree 

On  art.     Perhaps  the  fault's  with  me. 

I  love  fair,  rounded,  plastic  shapes, 

The  subtile  soul  from  me  escapes. 

I  love  this  world  too  much  to  yearn 

For  saintly  dreams  to  which  you  turn. 

With  Epicurus  the  divine 

I  am  content  when  bright  eyes  shine, 

And  snowy  arms  about  me  twine. 

And  now,  Sebastian,  let  me  say 
The  Lady  Lalage  to-night 
Receives  her  friends,  and  bids  me  pray 
Her  invitation  you'll  not  slight. 
You  now  have  mourned  beyond  a  year, 
And  in  the  world  should  re-appear. 

FELIX. 

'Twere  best  to  go.     In  solitude 
At  first  our  forces  are  renewed; 
But  if  too  long  we  dwell  alone 
Morbid  we  grow  and  inward  brood 
Until  the  spirit's  health  is  gone. 

SEBASTIAN. 

The  Lady  Lalage, —  I  recall 
That  once  I  met  her  at  a  ball, 
A  lady  handsome,  rather  tall, 


32  Sebastian. 

With  rounded  and  voluptuous  form 
And  great  black  eyes  and  raven  hair, 
A  woman  dazzling,  strangely  fair. 
But  yesternight  however  warm 
The  invitation,  I'd  declined; 
But  now  quite  different  is  my  mind. 
I  am  all  weary  of  these  books, 
And  fain  would  see  how  woman  looks. 
I  gladly  will  attend  you  there. 

SCENE  IV. 

A  Street.     Sebastian  and  Antonio  leaving 
Lalage'  s  House. 

NIGHT. 

SEBASTIAN. 

The  Lady  Lalage  is  strangely  fair. 
ANTONIO. 

Be  not  entangled  in  the  snare 

Of  that  most  wondrous  raven  hair. 

Many  have  languished  in  their  pain, 

Adoring  her,  but  all  in  vain. 

She  seemeth  proof  against  their  arts, 

And  coldly  smiles  at  breaking  hearts. 

You'll  idly  seek  from  virtue's  ways 

Her  to  seduce  —  She  never  strays. 


A  Dramatic  Poem,  33 

SEBASTIAN. 

Much  you  mistake.     I  do  not  nurture 
The  least  design  against  her  virtue. 
I  would  not,  friend,  to  save  my  life 
Seek  to  mislead  our  host's  fair  wife. 

ANTONIO. 

All  that  does  very  well  to  say. 
I  have  known  others  talk  that  way 
Who  yet  have  ended  otherwise. 
There  is  a  charm  in  woman's  eyes 
That  plays  sad  havoc  with  our  morals 
When  cheeks  are  pink  and  lips  are  corals. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  fear  your  long  sojourn  in  France 
Has  robbed  you  of  your  little  chance 
To  be  a  saint. 

ANTONIO. 

I  sometimes  think 

The  Frenchman's  views  of  life  correct. 
We  have  in  youth  a  brief  romance, 
Then  marry,  settle  down  and  sink 
Into  the  humdrum  commonplace, 
Nor  further  joys  of  love  expect. 
Far  different  with  the  Gallic  race. 
Long  as  they  live  the  dulcet  game 
Of  love  they  play  with  subtle  art, 


34  Sebastian. 

And  age  itself  can  scarcely  tame 
The  fire  that  burns  their  amorous  heart. 
'Tis  most  immoral,  you  will  say, 
But  when  they  all  are  in  the  play 
None  can  complain,  and  surely  life 
Is  sweetened  by  the  tender  strife. 
Nor  is  it  wise  to  be  too  strict. 
The  world  forgives  with  ready  ease 
A  sinner's  sin — 'tis  what's  expected; 
But  when  the  virtuous  are  detected 
At  fault,  men  buzz  like  angry  bees, 
Rejoiced  their  venom  to  inflict. 

SEBASTIAN. 

You  say  that  many  men  have  courted 
Fair  Lalage  ? 

ANTONIO. 

So  'tis  reported; 

You  know  that  I  have  absent  been. 
And  truly  'tis  no  heinous  sin 
To  love  a  woman  fair  as  she. 

SEBASTIAN. 
And  all  you  say  have  loved  in  vain  ? 

ANTONIO. 

She  has  been  heedless  of  their  pain, 
So  all  aver  the  fact  to  be. 
And  yet  I  own  it  seems  to  me 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  35 


She  should  not  be  beyond  all  reach; 
She  seems  from  Lilith  to  descend. 

SEBASTIAN. 
What  would  you  say,  my  worthy  friend  ? 

ANTONIO. 

You  know  that  Adam,  as  they  teach, 
Possessed  an  earlier  wife  than  Eve. 
We  thus  two  female  types  receive, 
Both  needful  for  man's  happiness. 
Eve's  daughter  with  her  chaste  caress 
Consoles  us  in  our  heart's  distress, 
And  doth  our  home  with  children  bless. 
The  other  lures  to  love's  delights, 
To  lawless  passion,  sleepless  nights, 
To  kisses  fierce  that  burn  the  soul, 
To  joys  that  brook  no  law's  control, 
And  with  her  passionate  seduction 
Allures  us  oft  to  our  destruction, 
But  also  brings  a  bliss  intense 
So  keen  'tis  worth  the  consequence. 
Man  needs  them  both,  and  incomplete 
His  life  unless  he  both  has  tried, 
One  born  to  be  a  blushing  bride, 
For  lawless  joys  the  other  meet. 
Sometimes  it  happens,  sad  to  say, 
Eve's  gentle  daughters  tread  the  way 
Of  Lilith' s  children.      All  unfit, 


36  Sebastian. 

With  faltering  steps  they  follow  it, 
Their  souls  revolting  'gainst  their  shame, 
And  grieving  for  their  sullied  fame. 
And  sometimes  Lilith's  daughters  take 
The  place  of  Eve's,  and  so  become 
Mothers  and  wives,  but  most  succumb 
To  their  own  instincts,  forced  to  slake 
Their  burning  thirst  for  wanton  joy. 
Not  well  our  Lilith's  we  employ. 
The  Greeks  much  better  comprehend 
Their  value.     Helen  was  decended 
From  Lilith;  so  the  lovely  Thai's, 
Phryne,  Aspasia,  charming  Lai's. 
They  were  adored  in  that  bright  era 
By  all  who  worshiped  at  the  shrine 
Of  Aphrodite  the  divine. 
Beside  the  wife  stood  the  hetaera, 
Both  honored  in  their  separate  spheres; 
The  one  the  angel  of  the  home 
Whose  chaste  affections  did  not  roam, 
The  other  tending  on  the  fires 
Of  Aphrodite  Pandemos, 
Goddess  of  uncontrolled  desires, 
With  her  wild  infant  Himeros, 
Who  hovering  by  her  side  appears. 
Possessed  of  both,  man  was  content, 
His  every  wish  was  satisfied; 
But  now  all  honor  is  denied 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  37 


To  those  of  Lilith's  fair  descent 

Unless  they  imitate  the  carriage 

Of  Eve's  chaste  daughters,  and  consent 

To  wear  the  heavy  chain  of  marriage. 

So,  many  who  were  born  to  be 

Hetaerse  passionate  and  free 

Bow  all  unsuited  to  the  yoke 

Till  time  and  circumstance  provoke 

Them  to  rebellion.     Such  to  me 

Appears  the  Lady  Lalage. 

SEBASTIAN. 

No,  No,  my  friend,  'tis  plain  you  err, 
And  gross  injustice  do  to  her 
In  this  opinion.     That  she's  pure 
Although  much  courted,  you  assure. 
A  woman  in  her  richest  prime 
Wedded  to  one  bowed  down  by  time, 
Who  yet  maintains  her  fame  untarnished 
Is  not  a  mere  hetsera  varnished. 
Your  types  sometimes  in  one  combined 
Present  to  us  the  perfect  woman, 
With  fascinations  superhuman, 
Ardent  and  passionate  and  kind, 
Fitted  for  love's  supreme  delight, 
Yet  pure  as  in  the  silver  light 
Of  chastest  moons;  and  such  to  me 
Appears  the  Lady  Lalage. 


38  Sebastian. 

ANTONIO. 

You  are,  I  see,  caught  in  the  snare 
Of  that  luxuriant  raven  hair. 
Do  you  suppose  I  did  not  see 
Your  doting  o'er  her  bosom's  charms, 
The  snowy  neck,  the  tapered  arms, 
Her  face  that  Helen's  well  might  be? 
All  through  the  evening  I  observed 
How  humbly  at  her  feet  you  served, 
What  burning  glances  you  directed 
On  charms  by  finest  lace  protected. 
Already  I  perceive  you  break 
The  tenth  commandment  for  her  sake. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  covet  not  my  neighbor's  wife. 
Although  her  charms  I  may  admire 
Pure  admiration  they  inspire, 
Nor  waken  love's  tumultuous  strife. 

ANTONIO. 

'Tis  well;'  and  yet  I  do  not  see 

Why  you  should  not  accepted  be. 

You  are  of  splendid  family, 

Of  comely  person,  courteous  manners, 

And  once  fought  well  'neath  Cupid's  banners; 

And  she,  in  rich  maturity 

Is  of  the  age  when  women  are 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  39 

Most  worthy  to  be  wooed  and  won. 
Sweeter  than  girlish  love  by  far, 
Sweetest  of  all  beneath  the  sun, 
Is  that  of  woman  in  her  prime, 
When  full  development  the  mind 
And  body  have  alike  attained. 
Then  she  is  best,  then  is  the  time 
To  win  her  love.     Then  she  is  kind 
And  strong  and  passionate  and  sweet; 
Then  is  her  witchery  complete. 
The  Lady  Lalage  has  gained 
That  happy  age,  and  if  you  win 
Her  love,  the  joy  were  worth  the  sin. 

SEBASTIAN. 
Then  why  not  claim  her  for  your  own  ? 

ANTONIO. 

Because  'twere  vain;  but  she  has  shown 
To  you  more  favors  than  to  all 
Who  yet  have  bowed  beneath  her  thrall. 
Besides,  she  is  too  much  for  me. 
An  Epicurean,  I  sip 
The  wine  of  love  with  sapient  lip, 
And  wish  no  Phasdra  such  as  she. 
I  but  aspire  to  facile  loves, 
To  women  soft  as  cooing  doves; 
I  wish  alone  love's  wanton  joy, 
And  not  fierce  passions  that  destroy. 


40  Sebastian. 

Barbarians  when  they  seize  on  wine 

Swill  it  as  greedily  as  swine 

Until,  like  brutes,  all  overcome 

They  lie  stretched  out  inert  and  dumb; 

While  men  of  culture  fill  the  glasses, 

Inhale  its  perfume,  sip  it  slowly, 

Appreciate  its  flavor  wholly, 

And  taste  each  rudy  drop  that  passes, 

Seeking  alone  exhiliration, 

Nor  yielding  to  intoxication. 

So  'tis  with  love;  the  prudent  man 

Pursues  it  as  a  pleasing  game, 

Draws  from  it  all  the  joy  he  can, 

But  flies  its  desolating  flame. 

The  kind  of  love  that  bringeth  pleasure 

Is  love  in  just  sufficient  measure 

To  wake  desire,  not  love  that  burns, 

And  which  too  oft  to  anguish  turns. 

If  I  mistake  not,  Lalage 

Has  in  her  blood  volcanic  fire. 

To  tigress  loves  I  don't  aspire, 

The  frailer  ones  suffice  for  me 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  care  not  for  your  light  amours. 
If  I  must  love  I  want  the  the  stress 
Of  real  passion,  and  a  bliss 
So  keen  it  borders  on  distress, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  41 


The  burning  joy  of  frenzied  kiss, 
The  wildly  passionate  embrace 
Of  arms  that  cling  and  interlace; 
'Tis  love  like  that  my  soul  allures. 

ANTONIO. 

'Tis  plain  you  do  not  comprehend 
The  art  of  living  pleasantly. 
Instead  of  hurrying  to  the  end 
We  long  should  linger  by  the  way, 
Enjoying  love's  delicious  play. 
As  men  become  more  civilized 
Less  is  the  mere  possession  prized, 
And  more  the  pleasure  of  pursuit. 
The  man  who  fishes  with  a  net 
Knows  nothing  of  the  joy  of  angling. 
More  quickly  he  the  fish  may  get, 
Them  basely  in  the  mesh  entangling; 
But  that  is  worthy  of  a  brute. 
Not  so  the  cultured  angler  fishes; 
A  fragile  reed  alone  he  wishes; 
With  this  he  hooks  the  largest  trout, 
And  plays  him  with  infinite  skill, 
Letting  him  first  dart  all  about, 
Now  here,  now  there,  just  as  he  will, 
Forcing  the  hook  deep  in  his  gill, 
Until  his  strength  is  wearied  out; 
And  when  at  length  the  sport  is  o'er 


42  Sebastian. 

He  pulls  him  gently  to  the  shore. 
The  art  of  love  is  just  the  same, 
'  Tis  thus  the  artist  plays  the  game. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  must  confess  I  have  no  wish 
The  ladies  to  confound  with  fish. 
If  I  should  love  'twould  be  sincere, 
And  would  not  end  with  mere  possession. 
'Twould  be  inflamed  by  each  concession, 
And  would  increase  from  year  to  year. 
'  Tis  therefore  not  worth  while  to  waste 
Such  sage  advice  on  me,  I  fear. 

ANTONIO. 

You  have  one  virtue  very  great 
In  one  who  would  o'  ercome  the  fair. 
Smoking  has  kept  more  women  chaste 
Than  virtue  has,  beyond  compare. 
When  ready  to  capitulate 
And  give  the  kiss  whence  follows  all, 
How  oft  their  nostrils  are  offended, 
The  spell  is  broken,  all  is  ended, 
And  he  knows  not  what  caused  his  fall. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Again  you  do  exaggerate. 
True  love  resideth  in  the  soul, 
Nor  on  tobacco  hangs  its  fate. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  43 

ANTONIO. 

It  is  the  senses  that  control. 
If  not,  why  don't  you  love  profess 
For  one  that's  ugly,  old  and  wrinkled, 
Whose  scanty  locks  with  gray  are  sprinkled, 
But  who  all  virtues  doth  possess  ? 
A  man's  a  pig  in  gilded  sty, 
And  she  who  understands  the  art 
To  rouse  and  then  to  satisfy 
His  appetite  will  rule  his  heart. 
The  chaste,  cold  wife  oft  wanders  why 
She  is  forsook  for  one  less  fair, 
Nor  comprehends  she  should  employ 
Her  luscious  charms  for  amorous  joy 
To  bind  him  firmly  in  love's  snare. 
The  women  who  have  conquered  men, 
And  ruled  as  tyrants  o'  er  their  hearts, 
The  Circes  who  by  magic  arts 
Have  changed  them  back  to  beasts  again, 
The  Cleopatras  for  whose  smiles 
Kingdoms  are  lost  without  regret, 
Are  those  who  by  seductive  wiles 
Men's  appetites  for  pleasure  whet 
Until,  all  frenzied  by  desire, 
They  burn  with  a  consuming  fire. 
And  there  are  those  whose  kiss  has  power 
To  sear  the  soul  as  with  a  flame, 
Making  it  blind  to  every  aim 


44  Sebastian. 

Save  passion  from  that  fatal  hour. 
'Twas  such  that  lured  the  angels  down 
From  heaven  to  dwell  upon  the  earth, 
Forgetting  their  celestial  birth 
And  casting  off  their  starry  crown. 
Love  is  a  hunger  for  the  charms 
Of  handsome  face  and  dimpled  arms, 
Of  bosom  round  and  firm  and  white, 
Of  all  that  tempts  to  love's  delight. 
'Tis  in  excitement  of  the  senses 
Most  frequently  that  it  commences. 
It  is  a  singular  compound 
Of  friendship  and  of  sensual  passion 
Blended  together  in  such  fashion 
That  hard  it  is  to  trace  the  bound. 

SEBASTIAN. 

You  are  not  half  correct,  my  friend. 
Love  is  a  true  affinity 
Between  two  souls  that  strongly  tend 
To  join  together  and  to  blend 
In  sweet  and  perfect  unity. 
Love  is  the  purest,  noblest  feeling 
That  man  can  know.     It  lift  us  up, 
Sweetening  the  contents  of  life's  cup, 
The  joys  of  paradise  revealing. 
Do  not  endeavor  to  degrade 
The  purest  thing  that  God  has  made. 
Nature  createth  nothing  single, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  45 

But  every  thing  has  each  its  mate, 
Toward  which  its  longings  gravitate, 
With  which  it  yearns  to  meet  and  mingle. 
Nothing  is  in  itself  complete; 
All  yearns  to  find  its  counterpart. 
When  loving  heart  is  joined  to  heart, 
Then  'tis  we  live,  then  life  is  sweet. 
True  bliss  is  only  found  in  love; 
And  much  I  think  the  Christians  err 
Forbidding  marriage  ties  with  her 
Without  whose  presence  heaven  above 
Would  loose  its  charm.     For  womanhood 
The  heart  of  man  must  ever  yearn; 
And  God  declared  it  was  not  good 
Man  should  alone  on  earth  sojourn, 
And  for  his  wife  created  Eve. 
Man's  love  for  woman  is  so  strong 
That  I  confess  I  can't  conceive 
A  heaven  where  marriage  don't  belong. 
I  do  not  wish  the  Moslem  heaven 
With  seventy  black- eyed  houris  given. 
I  long  for  love,  love  sweet  and  pure, 
'Tis  that  that  doth  my  soul  allure. 
What  you  call  love  is  but  caprice. 
Mere  sensual  joy  you  long  to  taste, 
And  move  toward  that  with  brutal  haste, 
And  when  'tis  won,  all  longings  cease. 
True  love  is  humble,  worshiping 


46  Sebastian. 

Its  object  as  a  sacred  thing. 

The  lover  scarce  dares  lift  his  eyes 

To  her,  an  angel  from  the  skies. 

A  look,  a  pressure  of  the  hand, 

Fills  him  with  transport,  and  he  thinks 

That  in  a  smile  heaven's  joy  he  drinks. 

Upon  a  height  she  seems  to  stand, 

Where  he  can  never  hope  to  reach. 

He  worships  humbly  from  afar 

Until  at  length  he  dares  beseech 

Her  love,  as  one  might  pray  a  star. 

You  look  on  woman  as  the  spider 

Looks  on  the  fly  it  seeks  to  capture. 

You'd  'first  degrade  and  then  deride  her. 

Nothing  you  know  of  love's  true  rapture. 

ANTONIO. 

Love  is  the  war  between  the  sexes. 
JTis  woman's  to  resist  aggression 
Until  at  length  she  comes  to  fall, 
And  then  to  bind  him  'neath  her  thrall. 
Men's  part  is  to  attain  possession, 
And  yet  to  keep  his  freedom  all. 

SEBASTIAN. 

You  cynicism  somewhat  perplexes. 
But  well  you  know  that  love  is  not 
A  state  of  war,  but  one  of  peace, 
The  sweetest  known  to  mortal  lot. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  47 

Love  you  confound  with  mere  caprice 
But  let  this  cynic  mocking  cease. 
And  now  that  we  have  reached  your  gate, 
Good  night,  my  friend,  'tis  very  late. 

ANTONIO. 

Good  night,  Sebastian;  through  your  sleep 
Seductive  dreams  of  her  will  creep. 
And  friend,  to-morrow  you'll  go  see 
The  charming  Lady  Lalage. 

SCENE  V. 

Felix  and  Sebastian. 
FELIX. 

My  dear  Sebastian,  I  must  beg  of  you 
No  longer  our  departure  to  delay. 
Great  danger  threatens  should  we  longer  stay. 
Without  solicitude  I  can  not  view 
Your  growing  love  for  Lady  Lalage. 

SEBASTIAN. 

'Twere  needless  to  deny  I  feel  the  charm 
Of  her  great  beauty,  but  for  your  alarm 
There  is  no  just  occasion  that  I  see. 

FELIX. 

You  love  her  more,  Sebastian,  than  you  own; 
Else  long  ago  to  Italy  we'd  flown. 


48  Sebastian. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  must  admit  that  her  society 

I  find  most  pleasing.     She  is  passing  fair, 

And  with  her  charm  and  grace  can  none  compare. 

FELIX. 

Sebastian,  I  beseech  you  to  beware. 
Think  who  she  is  —  she  is  another's  wife. 
Through  degradation  and  through  shame  alone 
Can  you  e'er  hope  to  claim  her  as  your  own. 
Would  you  polute  her  bright  and  spotless  life  ? 

SEBASTIAN. 
Not  for  the  world. 

FELIX. 

Then  come  away  with  me. 
In  such  a  case  the  brave  are  those  who  flee. 
Be  not  too  confident.     Love  is  a  power 
That  creeps  upon  us  in  the  unguarded  hour. 
At  first  we  smile  such  puny  chains  to  see, 
And  let  him  wind  them  round  us  as  he  will, 
Nor  fearing  aught  of  such  weak  bonds  until 
It  is  too  late,  and  then  we  strive  in  vain 
To  break  his  slender,  adamantine  chain. 
You  can  to-day  part  from  her,  but  to-morrow 
May  be  too  late,  and  endless  shame  and  sorrow, 
Yea,  death  itself,  may  punish  your  delay. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  49 

SEBASTIAN. 

Felix,  there  is  no  cause  for  this  dismay. 
The  Lady  Lalage  is  far  above 
The  thought  of  yielding  to  a  guilty  love; 
And  you  should  know  that  I  shall  ne'er  offend 
Against  the  rules  of  honor,  my  good  friend. 

FELIX. 

Trust  not  too  much  to  honor.     When  the  fire 
Of  passion  burns,  when  love  and  hot  desire 
Seethe  in  the  bosom,  honor's  voice,  unheard, 
Serves  only  to  reproach  us  when  we've  erred 
Beyond  redemption.     Love's  a  malady 
That  prays  upon  the  soul  insidiously. 
It  creeps  upon  us  as  a  pleasing  langour, 
And  we  are  lost  ere  danger  we  suspect. 
The  Greeks  were  wise  who  saw  it  in  the  anger 
Of  Gods  who  men  on  seas  of  passion  wrecked, 
To  punish  their  offending. 

SEBASTIAN. 

If 'tis  sent 

By  wrathful  gods  on  men  as  punishment, 
The  deities  must  bear  the  blame  of  sin. 
So  thought  the  Greeks,  nor  Helen  did  destoy, 
But  gladly  brought  her  back  from  burning  Troy, 
And  Menelaus  led  her  proudly  in 
To  reign  again  as  queen  in  Sparta's  halls. 


50  Sebastian. 

FELIX. 

But  we  know  better.     Love  legitimate 
Is  pure  and  chaste,  nor  comes  it  from  the  hate 
Of  envious  gods,  and  when  its  chain  enthralls, 
Leading  us  on  through  flowery  paths  to  where 
Stands  Hymen's  alter,  we  may  follow  on 
Rejoicing,  by  the  tender  impulse  drawn. 
But  when  we  find  another's  wife  too  fair, 
We  know  at  once  the  guilt  of  our  desire, 
And  sternly  should  repress  the  nascent  fire. 

SEBASTIAN. 

And  yet  for  both  the  passion  is  the  same, 
Though  one  meets  your  approval,  one  your  blame. 
Love  is  a  passion  planted  in  the  breast 
By  heaven  to  make  man's  earthly  sojourn  blest. 
Gentle  and  sweet  the  thoughts  that  it  instills, 
Binding  two  hearts  together  till  each  thrills 
In  unison  of  bliss.     When  two  souls  meet 
Born  to  be  mates,  instinctivly  they  greet 
Each  other  —  love  awakes  by  God's  decree. 
And  yet  you  say  that  when  some  man  has  given 
A  woman  to  another,  she  must  be 
Forever  his,  and  from  her  true  love  flee, 
Thus  placing  man's  decrees  above  the  laws  of  heaven. 

FELIX. 

'Tis  not  Sabastian's  soul  that  speak eth  thus, 
But  that  wild  passion  that  o'ermasters  it. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  51 

None  better  knows  that  human  edicts  writ 
'  Gainst  such  amours  but  serve  to  ratify 
The  laws  which  God  himself  ordained  for  us. 
And  dread  the  consequence  if  you  defy 
God's  laws  and  man's.     I  do  not  speak  of  you, 
For  you  I  know  impervious  are  to  fear; 
But  think  of  her  to  whom  you  fondly  sue, 
Whom  you  would  die  for,  rather  than  a  tear 
Should  dim  the  melting  lustre  of  her  eye. 
If  she  should  fall,  all  hope  of  joy  were  gone. 
She  never  could  be  happy  with  the  sense 
Of  guilt  upon  her  soul.     You'd  lead  her  on 
To  secret  sin,  but  public  shame  would  follow; 
Her  ruin  and  your  own  the  consequence. 
So  do  not  yield  to  reasoning  so  hollow. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Felix,  you're  right,  but,  pray  you,  do  not  think 

That  ever  I  have  thought  of  loving  her 

Save  with  a  chaste  affection  that  would  shrink 

From  the  bare  thought  of  leading  her  to  err. 

And  if  I  were  inclined,  she  has  not  shown 

The  slightest  sign  that  could  encourage  me 

To  venture  aught  against  a  purity 

Spotless  as  snow  by  mountain  breezes  blown. 

This  eve,  however,  I  will  bid  adieu, 

And  then  to-morrow  I'll  away  with  you. 


52  Sebastian. 

FELIX. 

'  Twere  better  if  your  farewell  you  would  send 
By  letter  as  we  started. 

SEBASTIAN. 

No,  my  friend, 

'Twere  most  discourteous.     I  will  go  and  say 
Farewell,  and  then  to  Italy  away. 

SCENE  VI. 

Sebastian  and  Lalage  in  gardens  of  Lalage 's  house. 

NIGHT. 
SEBASTIAN. 

Thou  art  so  beautiful,  temptingly  beautiful, 
Kiss  me  once,  kiss  me  once  ere  I  depart, 

Long  have  I  waited,  love,  humble  and  dutiful, 
Hiding  the  passion  consuming  my  heart. 

Deep  in  the  breast  of  the  mountain  is  burning 
Fire  that  is  hidden  there  far  from  our  sight, 

Seething  and  surging  with  passionate  yearning, 
Striving  to  issue  forth  into  the  light. 

Long  by  the  strength  of  the  mountain  subjected, 
Writhing  and  twisting,  it  struggles  in  vain; 

Fiercer  the  strength  that  it  yet  has  collected, 
Bursting  at  length  like  a  wolf  from  its  chain. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  53 

So  from  its  fetters  my  passion  has  broken, 

Bearing  me  on  to  distraction  and  sin; 
Words  I  should  perish  before  they  were  spoken 

Rush  to  my  lips,  and  will  not  be  held  in. 

Lead  us,  oh,  lead  us  not  into  temptation, 
Such  is  the  prayer  that  alone  is  worth  all. 

Cruel  was  He  that  at  Eden's  creation 

Planted  the  Knowledge  Tree  causing  the  fall. 

Ever  unconsciously,  sweet,  thou  has  tempted  me, 
Tempted  me  past  my  endurance  to  bear; 

God  from  man's  weakness  has  never  exempted  me, 
And  thou  wert  ever  too  temptingly  fair. 

Thou  art  so  beautiful,  temptingly  beautiful, 

I  can  no  longer  my  passion  control, 
I  can  no  longer  be  humble  and  dutiful, 

Kiss  me  but  once  though  the  price  be  my  soul. 

LALAGE. 

Sebastian,  Sebastian,  be  silent  I  pray, 
Oh,  seek  not,  oh,  seek  not  to  lead  me  astray. 
If  truly  thou  lovest,  thou  wishest  me  pure, 
Then  into  temptation,  oh,  do  not  allure. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Ah!  half  thou  confessest  my  love  is  returned; 
The  fire  that  so  long  in  my  bosom  has  burned 


54  Sebastian. 

Hath  wakened  an  answering  flame  in  thy  heart, 
Oh,  kiss  me  then,  kiss  me  then  ere  I  depart. 

LALAGE. 

Sebastian,  Sebastian,  'twere  vain  to  deny 
That  often  in  secret  I've  stifled  a  sigh. 
I  own  that  I  love  thee,  but  oh,  I  implore, 
Accept  this  confession,  demanding  no  more. 

SEBASTIAN. (Seizing  her  in  his  arms.) 

Oh,  speak  to  the  river  that  rolls  to  the  sea, 
To  the  lion  that  wooeth  his  terrible  mate, 
To  the  hurricane  driving  the  ship  to  its  fate, 
And  bid  them  be  quiet,  but  speak  not  to  me. 
Thou  lovest  me,  lovest  me,  then  thou  art  mine, 
And  nothing  shall  part  us  as  long  as  life  lasts, 
And  when  at  the  day  of  the  judgment  divine 
The  earth  from  her  bosom  her  children  outcasts, 
Around  thee  mine  arms  I  shall  lovingly  twine, 
And  smile  at  the  blare  of  the  trumpeter's  blasts. 

LALAGE. {Disengaging  herself.) 

'Tis  thou  who  has  wished  it,  but  dost  thou  conceive 
The  force  of  the  passion  that  thou  dost  invoke  ? 
As  long  as  life  lasts  unto  thee  I  shall  cleave; 
I  am  thine,  thou  art  mine,  till  the  day  when  the  stroke 
Of  the  scythe  of  the  reaper  shall  part  us  in  twain. 
In  my  breast  evermore  thou  as  master  shalt  reign; 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  55 

When  thou  ceasest  to  love  me,  Sebastian,  I  die  — 
From  the  depths  of  my  bosom  thou  hearest  my  cry. 

(She  throws  herself  into  his  arms. ) 
SABASTIAN. 

Oh,  speak  not  of  ceasing  to  love  thee,  my  sweet; 
Till  the  borders  of  time  and  eternity  meet 
I  am  thine,  my  beloved,  and  even  in  death 
I  shall  murmer  thy  name  with  my  last  fleeting  breath. 

(He  kisses  her.} 

How  sweet,  oh  how  sweet  is  a  kiss  from  thy  lips! 
The  bee  that  on  Hybla  the  honey-dew  sips 
Knows  nothing  of  sweetness,  knows  nothing  of  bliss, 
They  only  are  found  in  thy  ravishing  kiss. 

(He  kisses  her  again.} 
LALAGE. 

Oh,  do  not  despise  me  because  I  thus  yield. 
Against  thee  my  bosom  I  could  not  have  steeled. 
I  have  loved  thee  in  silence  since  first  thou  wert  known. 
Deal  gently  with  one  so  completely  thine  own. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Despise  thee,  my  darling!    I  worship  the  spot 
That  is  touched  by  thy  feet,  and  I  envy  the  lot 
Of  the  grass  that  is  pressed  by  thy  delicate  tread. 
Speak  not  of  despising,  I  worship  instead. 
The  evening  when  first  to  thy  mansion  I  came 


56  Sebastian. 

There  awoke  in  my  bosom  a  passionate  flame 
Which  shall  burn  ever  brighter  as  time  shall  roll  on, 
And  reign  in  my  breast  at  eternity's  dawn. 
Couldst  thou  teach  me  to  love  the  Creator  on  high 
With  a  love  as  devout  as  the  passionate  sigh 
That  I  breathe  at  thy  feet,  then  a  saint  I  should  be 
Like  the  saints  that  once  wandered  by  blue  Gallilee. 

LALAGE. 

Then  wilt  thou  forsake  me,  oh,  wilt  thou  depart  ? 
Oh,  now  it  is  thine  wilt  thou  shatter  my  heart  ? 
I  know  that  the  land  where  thou  goest  is  fair 
With  a  beauty  denied  to  the  land  of  thy  birth, 
That  the  blossoming  oranges  perfume  the  air, 
And  the  songs  of  the  angels  are  heard  on  the  earth. 
I  know  that  our  palaces  are  but  as  sties 
Compared  with  its  mansions  of  marble  and  gold, 
Where  the  glitter  of  jewels  doth  dazzle  the  eyes 
And  the  glories  of  art  as  the  sands  are  untold. 
I  know  that  its  women  have  charms  never  given 
To  those  that  are  born  in  our  homelier  clime, 
Recalling  the  peris  that  wandered  from  heaven 
To  mingle  with  men  in  the  world's  lusty  prime. 
But  a  heart  that  will  love  with  devotion  as  true 
As  the  one  that  now  burns  in  my  passionate  breast 
In  vain  wilt  thou  seek  'neath  that  firmament  blue, 
In  those  mansions  that  seem  the  abodes  of  the  blest. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  57 

SEBASTIAN. 

From  the  peaks  of  the  Alps  to  Calabria's  cape, 
From  the  temples  of  Rome  to  the  blue  Appenine, 
There  is  nought  that  in  beauty  can  distantly  ape 
The  least  of  thy  charms,  oh,  my  angel  divine. 

LALAGE. 

And  yet  thou  wilt  leave  me  and  wander  afar 
To  the  land  where  the  olive  and  vine  interlace, 
Where  soon  thou  wilt  worship  a  lovelier  star, 
Forgetting  my  grief  for  a  handsomer  face. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Should  Venus  in  person  descend  from  above 
In  all  of  her  beauty,  imploring  my  love, 
I  should  tell  her  a  goddess  still  fairer  than  she 
Had  promised  the  queen  of  my  bosom  to  be. 

LALAGE. 

And  yet  wilt  thou  leave  me,  and,  wandering  forth, 
Wilt  seek  the  delights  of  that  beautiful  clime; 
While  I  pine  for  thy  love  in  the  gloom  of  the  north, 
In  that  land  of  the  sun  thou  wilt  reck  not  the  time. 

SEBASTIAN. 

If  the  wealth  of  the  Indies  were  offered  to  me 
With  all  of  the  gems  in  the  caves  of  the  sea, 
If  the  crown  of  the  Caesars  my  guerdon  should  be, 
I  would  not  one  moment  be  parted  from  thee. 


58  Sebastian. 

LALAGE. 

Oh,  blest  be  the  lips  which  that  promise  have  spoken! 
It  has  flooded  my  bosom  with  raptuous  bliss. 
I  know  that  thy  pledges  will  never  be  broken, 
And  I  seal  thee  as  mine  with  this  passionate  kiss. 

(Kisses  him  passionately.      Then  starts  back.} 

But  what  wilt  thou  think  of  a  woman  who  thus 
Surrenders  herself  when  thy  love  is  scarce  told  ? 
Such  frankness  in  passion  becometh  not  us, 
Who  to  lovers'  appeals  should  be  modestly  cold. 

SEBASTIAN.  (Clasping  her  in  his  arms.) 

Oh,  speak  not  of  modesty;  that  but  begins 
Where  love  terminates,  and  the  lover  who  wins 
The  heart  of  his  mistress  finds  nothing  of  that 
In  the  path  to  the  goal  of  his  hopes  to  combat. 
But  hark,  they  are  seeking  thee,  we  must  return, 
And  I  must  surrender  thee  back  to  the  crowd. 
Oh,  kiss  me  again,  yet  again.     How  I  yearn 
To  hold  thee  as  mine  with  a  passion  avowed. 

LALAGE. 

Oh,  scarcely  I've  found  thee!  So  soon  must  we  part? 
Then  press  me  again,  yet  again  to  thy  heart, 
And  know  that  though  absent  I  seemingly  be, 
My  spirit  forever  shall  hover  by  thee. 


A  Dramatic  Poem. 


59 


SEBASTIAN. 

Another  —  another  —  a  last  parting  kiss! 
Ah,  almost  I  swoon  with  excess  of  my  bliss. 
But  now  my  belov'd,  I  must  bid  thee  farewell 
Though  the  word  in  my  bosom  doth  sound  as  a  knell. 
Then  adieu  to  thee,  darling,  adieu  to  thee,  sweet. 

LALAGE. 
Farewell,  my  Sebastian,  till  soon  we  shall  meet. 

SCENE  VII. 


Lalage  alone  in  her  chamber. 
NIGHT. 


LALAGE. 


Sebastian  comes  to-night,  yet  I  am  sad. 

I  wonder  to  what  end  this  love  will  lead  ? 

I  care  not  if  it  ever  be  with  him, 

Feasting  upon  the  kisses  of  his  mouth 

As  on  the  nectar  of  the  blessed  gods. 

I  fear  'twill  be  my  ruin,  but  if  I 

Can  sweep  through  Hades  locked  in  his  embrace, 

Even  as  Francesca  in  old  Dante's  song, 

My  fate  will  be  most  happy.     Oh,  the  love 

I  bear  him!  Naught  I  knew  of  happiness 

Till  pressed  against  his  heart!  'Tis  half  an  hour 

Before  he  comes.    My  harp  is  here,  I'll  sing  an  ancient 

song 
To  cheat  the  lagging  moments  while  I  wait. 


60  Sebastian. 

SINGS. 

I  sailed  upon  a  river, 
It  sparkled  in  the  light, 

Its  crystal  waters  rippled 

With  laughter  pure  and  bright. 

I  drifted  down  the  river, 
And  still  it  smiled  to  me, 

And  sweeter  grew  its  beauty 
As  it  bore  me  toward  the  sea. 

And  I  had  no  thought  of  danger 
As  I  watched  the  lovely  stream  . 

On  which  the  sun  was  resting 
With  fond  caressing  beam. 

I  saw  the  current  quicken, 

But  I  would  not  seek  the  shore; 

The  river  was  so  charming 

That  I  loved  it  more  and  more, 

And  ever  swifter  flowed  it, 
But  still  I  looked  and  smiled, 

For  I  loved  that  beauteous  river 
Whose  charms  my  soul  beguiled. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  61 

And  now  I  hear  the  cataract 

That  plunges  into  gloom; 
'Tis  now  too  late  to  struggle, 

I  can  not  'scape  my  doom. 

Oh,  river,  I  have  loved  thee 

With  a  passion  deep  and  strong, 

With  a  love  that  perhaps  was  guilty, 
But  it  seemed  too  sweet  for  wrong. 

And  now  thou  bearest  me  onward 

To  the  dark  and  cruel  grave, 
And  still  I  love  so  madly 

My  life  I  would  not  save. 

Upon  thy  breast  I  am  happy, 

Though  thou  whilrest  me  down  to  the  tomb, 
And  gazing  upon  thy  bosom 

I  smilingly  meet  my  doom. 

Now  louder  grows  the  tumult, 

I  near  the  awful  brink ; 
Oh,  kiss  me  lovely  river. 

Oh,  kiss  me  ere  I  sink. 

'Tis  a  sad  old  song,  and  makes  me  sadder  still. 
I  wonder  why  Sebastian  loves  it  so  ? 
Would  he  were  here.     My  heart  is  sore  oppressed, 
And  I'm  afraid.     A  chill  creeps  over  me. 


62  Sebastian. 

I  wish  that  rat  would  stop  his  knawing  there, 
It  grates  upon  my  nerves;  and  how  the  owls 
Are  hooting  in  the  fir  trees!  Now  one  laughs, 
A  cruel  laugh  that  makes  my  blood  run  cold. 
How  weak  I  am,  I  who  was  once  so  brave. 
The  faintest  sound  of  the  uncanny  night 
Doth  make  me  start.     And  now  that  cat! 
There's  something  strangely  human  in  their  cry 
Like  the  long  wail  of  souls  in  agony. 
Was  that  a  footstep  yonder  in  the  hall  ? 
No,  'twas  the  wind,  and  yet  I  tremble  so! 

(Poly carp  rushes  in.) 
POLYCARP. 

Thou  cursed  harlot,  thou  dost  wait  for  him ! 
Die,  die!  (Stabs  her.) 

LALAGE. 

Oh,  murder!  thou  hast  killed  me!  Oh, 
Sebastian!         (Dies.) 

(A  long  pause.     Poly  carp  stands  looking  at 
the  body.     At  last  Sebastian  enters  by  the  window. ) 

SEBASTIAN. 
Oh,  God!  oh,  God! 

POLYCARP.  (insane.) 

Ha,  Ha,  come  in  and  share  the  wedding  feast! 
Come,  come,  and  dance,  it  is  a  joyous  night! 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  63 

Ha,  come  and  dance,  young  master,  come  and  dance! 

Dost  not  thou  not  hear  the  fiddles  and  the  harp  ? 

Come  in,  and  we  will  sup  right  merrily. 

Come  in,  come  in!     They  say  that  I  am  old, 

But  I  will  show  them  that  I  still  am  young. 

Ha,  thou  shalt  see  me  dancing  with  the  bride. 

Ha  ha,  they  say  she  married  me  to  save 

Her  father  from  distruction.     Foolish  tongues! 

Thou  soon  shalt  witness  how  she  dotes  on  me. 

Is  she  not  lovely  ?     Look,  the  coral  there 

Upon  her  bosom.     Some  fools  call  it  blood, 

But  it  is  coral,  coral  for  the  bride. 

Come  dance,  my  friend,  come  dance,  and  we  will  drain 

A  bumper  to  her  health.     Is  she  not  fair  ? 

And  she  will  soon  be  mine,  yea,  mine,  mine,  mine! 

Ha  ha,  I  laugh  at  those  sleek  young  gallants 

Who  pine  away  for  hunger  of  her  charms. 

Ha  ha,  come,  come,  we  will  away  to  revel! 

SEBASTIAN. 
Oh,  my  God,  my  God! 

(Sinks  swooning  on  the  body.) 


64  Sebastian. 


SCENE  VIII. 

Sebastian  and  Felix  crossing  the  Alps  dressed 
as  wandering  scholars  with  scrip  and  staff. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Look  at  the  storm  fiends 
Yonder  below  us 
Mustering  their  legions 
O'er  the  abyss. 

See  their  black  pinions 
Beating  together, 
Hear  how  they  mutter, 
Hear  how  they  hiss. 

FELIX. 

Fiercely  the  tempest 
Rages  below  us, 
But  up  above  us 
Bright  is  the  sky. 

Glorious,  majestic 
Round  us  the  mountains 
Lift  their  white  summits 
Gleaming  on  high. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  65 

SEBASTIAN. 

See  how  the  demons 
Gather  together 
Forming  their  phalanx 
For  the  assault. 

Demons  of  darkness 
Crowding  in  legions 
Ready  to  escalade 
Heaven's  blue  vault. 

FELIX. 

Gaze  not  thus  fixedly 
Into  the  chasm 
Lest,  growing  dizzy, 
Downward  thou  fall. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Hark  how  they  mutter! 
Now  they  behold  me 
See  how  they  beckon! 
On  me  they  call! 

FELIX. 

Bend  thy  glance  upward 
Into  the  heavens, 
Dread  the  abyss' 
Desperate  charm. 


66  Sebastian. 

Strange  how  the  perilous 
Depths  will  attract  us, 
Luring  us  wonderfully 
Down  to  our  harm. 

Stars  in  the  firmament, 
Weary  of  shining, 
Dash  themselves  franticly 
Down  from  their  height. 

Women  of  purity 
Spotless  as  angels, 
Lured  by  the  precipice, 
Plunge  into  night. 

Look  not  thus  fixedly 
Into  the  chasm, 
Tread  not  thus  recklessly 
Close  to  its  brink. 

SEBASTIAN. 
See  they  are  rising 
Rapidly  toward  us! 
Some  through  the  fir  trees 
Cautiously  slink, 

Others  more  boldly 
Straight  through  the  ether 
On  their  broad  pinions 
Toward  us  advance. 


A   Dramatic  Poem.  67 


Hark  to  the  tumult! 
Each  one  is  mounting, 
Shaking  his  terrible 
Far-flashing  lance. 

FELIX. 

Swiftly  the  tempest 
Upward  is  rolling. 
Seek  we  a  shelter 
Under  this  rock. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Hark  to  the  horrible 
Roar  of  the  storm-fiends! 
Even  the  mountains 
Quake  at  the  shock. 

FELIX. 

Upward  the  hurricane 
Toward  us  is  rushing; 
Plant  thy  feet  firmly, 
Cling  with  thy  hands. 

SEBASTIAN. 

See  how  the  storm -fiends 
Splinter  the  fir  trees; 
Nothing  their  passionate 
Fury  withstands. 


68  Sebastian. 

Look,  they  are  mounting, 
Countless  in  numbers, 
Coming  to  dash  us 
Down  to  the  grave. 

Still  they  are  mounting, 
Greater  their  fury, 
Hear  how  they  mutter, 
Hear  how  they  rave. 

FELIX. 

Great  is  the  danger! 
Seize  this  projection 
Of  the  firm  adamant! 
Desperately  cling! 

SEBASTIAN, 

Bounding  so  frightfully 
Through  the  scared  ether, 
Ever  advancing, 
Upward  they  spring. 

FELIX 

Steady!   it  reaches  us; 
O'er  us  it  surges. 
Now  up  above  us 
Passeth  the  storm. 


A  Dramatic  Poent.  69 


SEBASTIAN. 

Look  at  the  storm-fiends! 
Where  are  they  bearing 
On  their  black  pinions 
Lalage'  s  form  ? 

See  her  long  tresses 
Tossed  by  the  whirlwind, 
See  how  they  flutter, 
See  how  they  flow! 

Loose  me!  I'll  follow 
Upward  to  heaven, 
Or  to  hell's  caverns 
Yawning  below. 

Loose  me,  I  tell  thee. 
See,  she  is  weeping, 
See,  she  is  stretching 
Toward  me  her  arms ! 

FELIX. 

Ne'er  will  I  loose  thee! 
'Tis  but  a  phantom, 
Born  of  thy  passionate 
Sorrow,  that  charms. 

SEBASTIAN. 
Loose  me,  I  tell  thee, 
See  how  she  beckons! 


70  Sebastian. 

Oh,  they  are  bearing  her 
Far  from  my  sight! 

FELIX. 

Thou  art  distracted. 
Ne'  er  will  I  suffer  thee 
Deathward  to  dash  thyself 
Down  from  this  height. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Loose  me,  I  beg  of  you! 
See,  they  are  bearing  her 
Over  the  mountains 
Swiftly  away! 

See  she  is  beckoning! 
Quick  must  I  fly  to  her. 
Oh,  I  am  dizzy! 
Loose  me,  I  pray. 

(Sinks  fainting  upon  the  ground,} 

SCENE  IX. 

Sebastian  and  Felix  among  the  Appenines. 
FELIX. 

See  the  wondrous  beauty  of  this  region, 
Bathed  in  radiance  by  the  rising  sun, 
See  the  gilded  mists  below  us  mounting 
Like  blest  souls  whose  work  of  love  in  done. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  71 

Rising  from  the  plains  outstretched  beneath  us 
Where  the  vineyards  alternate  with  fields, 
And  where  Nature  with  unfailing  kindness 
Hundredfold  the  bounteous  harvest  yields. 

See,  above,  the  awful  mountain  standing, 
Lifting  in  the  blue  its  silver  crest, 
While  below,  it  folds  the  storm  cloud  proudly 
As  a  sable  mantle  round  its  breast. 

Here  'mid  nature's  beauty  and  her  grandeur 
Man's  vexed  soul  may  find  an  hour  of  peace 
As  a  weary  child  upon  the  bosom 
Of  its  mother  feels  its  troubles  cease. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Nature  is  a  stepdame  to  her  children, 
Not  a  mother  tender,  kind  and  true. 
What  cares  she  although  we  all  should  perish, 
What  cares  she  how  black  our  sorrow's  hue? 

Even  when  she  smiles  in  sweetest  beauty 
Death  she  sows  with  a  remorseless  hand. 
Yonder  lovely  mist  that  toward  us  rises 
Hath  left  fever  stalking  through  the  land. 

Not  a  gentle  mother  who  protects  us, 
Not  a  just  one  punishing  the  wrong; 
Guilt  and  innocence  alike  are  stricken 
As  she  drives  her  blood-stained  car  along. 


72  Se&astictiL 

From  the  mighty  monsters  that  have  vanished 
To  the  weaklings  of  the  present  hour 
Nature  doth  create  but  for  destruction, 
Bearing  children  only  to  devour. 

Call  not  her  a  mother  who  afflicts  us 
Needlessly  with  sorrow  and  with  pain, 
Who,  all  careless  of  our  guilt  or  virtue, 
Deals  to  us  our  happiness  or  bane. 

FELIX. 

Great  the  mystery  of  earth's  creation, 
And  'tis  not  for  us  poor  creeping  things 
To  pass  judgment  on  the  power  almighty 
At  whose  beck  the  universe  upsprings. 

Yonder  sun  that  in  his  glory  rises, 
Bearing  light  and  joy  to  wakening  earth, 
To  a  power  beneficent  as  mighty 
Owes  the  awful  splendor  of  his  birth. 

Canst  thou  doubt  the  firmament  above  us 
With  its  countless  multitude  of  stars 
Sweeping  each  in  its  predestined  orbit, 
Ruled  by  laws  which  discord  never  mars, 

Was  by  God  for  noble  ends  created  ? 

Why  call  forth  this  wondrous  whole  from  naught  ? 

If  it  be  not  for  a  worthy  purpose 

God  had  not  so  great  a  marvel  wrought. 


A  Dramatic  Poem. 

We  are  but  an  atom  of  the  Cosmos, 
Nor  can  comprehend  the  mighty  whole, 
Feeble  ants  in  darkness  ever  crawling, 
While  above  our  heads  the  planets  roll. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Vast  the  Cosmos,  and  we  judge  it  only 
By  the  fragment  to  our  sight  revealed, 
And  we  find  it  cruel,  cold,  remorseless, 
To  man's  cry  for  mercy  ever  steeled. 

FELIX. 

Man  offending  'gainst  the  laws  of  Nature 
Bears  the  punishment  of  his  offence, 
But  on  those  her  righteous  laws  obeying 
She  bestows  a  bounteous  recompense. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Nature  hath  her  laws,  but  all  their  bounty 
To  the  cunning  or  the  strong  is  paid, 
And  to  her  the  innocent  and  gentle 
Call  in  vain  for  mercy  or  for  aid. 

FELIX. 

Without  struggle  there  is  no  improving, 
Life's  a  conflict,  but  it  is  the  best, 
Yea,  the  noblest,  strongest  and  most  worthy 
Who  emerge  with  victory's  wreath  possessed. 


Sebastian. 


SEBASTIAN. 


So  Achilles  and  great  Hector  perished 
On  the  vulture-haunted  plains  of  Troy, 
While  the  coward  rabble  homeward  sailing 
Greeted  wives  and  native  land  with  joy. 

Those  surviving  in  life's  bitter  struggle 
Are  the  ones  best  fitted  to  survive 
In  a  world  where  fraud  and  force  still  triumph, 
Where  the  wicked  as  the  bay  tree  thrive. 

FELIX. 

Not  the  wicked  but  the  wise  and  prudent 
Are  the  victors  in  the  war  of  life. 
Thus  doth  Nature  teach  to  man  her  wisdom, 
Forcing  him  to  gird  him  for  the  strife. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Nature  careth  naught  for  guilt  or  virtue, 
But  the  rain  doth  fall  on  both  alike, 
And  the  wicked,  by  no  scruples  hampered, 
May  the  blow  with  greater  freedom  strike. 

FELIX. 

Oft  it  doth  appear  the  wicked  triumph, 
Justice  overtakes  them  yet  at  last. 
Just  is  Nature,  and  her  vengeance  cometh 
Surest  when  we  think  the  danger  past. 


A  Dramatic  PoeiH. 


SEBASTIAN. 


Oftener  is  innocence  afflicted 
Than  is  guilt,  for  Nature  careth  not. 
Man  must  rise  above  her  to  be  noble, 
Man  must  better  be  than  is  his  lot. 

Cruel  she,  therefore  he  must  show  mercy, 
Careless  she,  therefore  he  must  be  just; 
He  must  ever  seek  to  make  her  better, 
Struggle  with  her  evil  powers  he  must. 

War  against  the  Cosmos  is  man's  duty, 
Planting  wheat  where  Nature  soweth  tares, 
Striving  ever  to  be  good  and  noble, 
Though  of  virtue's  triumph  he  despairs. 

No,  my  Felix,  speak  not  thus  in  folly 
Nature  knoweth  neither  good  nor  ill, 
Nor  can  give  instruction  in  our  duty 
Right  to  follow  with  unflinching  will. 

FELIX. 

Yet  must  thou  confess  in  times  of  sorrow 
On  the  breast  of  Nature  peace  is  found, 
Which  we  vainly  seek  in  crowded  cities 
Where  the  tumults  of  man's  life  resound. 


76  Sebastian. 

In  her  placid  hours  there  is  a  calmness 
Bringing  peace  to  the  afflicted  soul, 
In  her  wrath  her  trouble  is  so  mighty 
We  forget  our  petty  human  dole. 

Who  can  look  on  yonder  verdant  meadows 
Where  the  mild-eyed  oxen  freely  browse, 
Or  in  pairs  beneath  the  yoke  subjected 
Draw  with  patient  tread  the  fruitful  plows; 

Who  can  look  on  yonder  mountain  summit, 
Calm,  majestic  in  its  robe  of  snow, 
Nor  perceive  the  balm  which  Nature  only 
Can  upon  the  bleeding  heart  bestow  ? 

Nature  is  the  one  supreme  consoler; 

Unto  her  we  fly  when  grief- oppressed, 

And  upon  our  wounds  she  spreadeth  ointment, 

Lulling  sorrow  with  her  songs  to  rest. 

SEBASTIAN. 

True  it  is  that  Nature  bringeth  calmness 
To  the  soul  tossed  on  the  sea  of  life, 
Weary  of  its  never  ending  surging, 
Weary  of  its  tumult  and  its  strife. 

Then  we  fly  from  man's  vexed  petty  passions 
To  the  far-off  mountain's  gloomy  pride, 
To  the  vale  where  brooklets  softly  purling 
Lure  us  on  to  linger  by  their  side. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  77 

There  the  fever  of  our  life  forsakes  us, 
Peace  descends  into  the  troubled  breast, 
Lost  is  every  sound  of  life's  commotion, 
And  we  find  the  sacred  boon  of  rest. 

So  it  was  in  former  days,  good  Felix, 
And  when  weary  of  the  life  of  men 
I  would  wander  forth  among  the  mountains, 
By  the  babbling  brook  or  reedy  fen; 

Sweet  repose  for  weary  brain  and  spirit 

In  the  forest's  silent  depths  I  found, 

And  returned  each  time  refreshed  and  strengthened, 

As  Antaeus  springing  from  the  ground. 

But  the  vulture  now  my  heart  is  gnawing 
As  it  gnawed  the  Titan  on  the  peak, 
And  no  more  repose  I  find  in  Nature 
Than  Prometheus  'neath  the,  vulture's  beak. 

FELIX. 

Peace  will  yet  come  to  thy  troubled  bosom, 
Time  alone  can  soften  sorrow's  sting. 

SEBASTIAN. 

No,  I  do  not  seek  surcease  of  sorrow, 
To  my  grief  with  all  my  soul  I  cling. 


7  8  Sebastian. 

FELIX. 

There  are  sorrows  which  we  fondly  cherish, 
Yet  in  time  they  slowly  slip  away; 
All  in  vain  we  press  them  to  our  bosom, 
All  in  vain  —  we  can  not  force  their  stay. 

Every  year  the  form  beloved  grows  dimmer, 
Seen  through  mists  that  rise  before  our  gaze 
And  regretfully  we  look  upon  it, 
Noting  with  remorse  the  gathering  haze. 

Sorrows  come  so  bitter  that  it  seemeth 
We  shall  bear  them  with  us  to  the  tomb, 
Yet  with  self-reproach  we  see  them  leaving 
And  our  heart  emerging  from  ife  gloom. 

It  is  sad  we  would  in  vain  be  constant 

To  the  grief  so  bitter  and  so  dear; 

But  'tis  best  the  wound  should  not  bleed  always, 

Nor  should  life  be  passed  beside  a  bier. 

'Tis  not  well  the  stricken  soul  should  languish 
Endlessly  in  unavailing  pain, 
Nor  the  past  with  its  remorse  should  hold  us, 
Living  duties  should  our  thoughts  enchain. 

Who  performs  each  day  his  daily  duty, 
Whether  high  or  low  his  lot  be  cast, 
Making  earth  the  brighter  for  his  presence, 
Expiates  the  errors  ,of  his  past. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  79 


See,  Sebastian,  see,  the  sun  is  mounting, 
Let  us  mount  with  him  to  yonder  height, 
And  behold  the  prospect  vast  and  lovely 
That  will  be  unrolled  before  our  sight. 


SCENE  X. 
Sebastian  and  Felix. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Well,  Felix,  last  night  in  the  darkness  reflecting, 

I  determined  to  leave  for  my  far  distant  home. 

Too  long  have  I  wandered,  my  duties  neglecting, 

From  Venice  to  Naples,  from  Florence  to  Rome. 

I  have  strolled  by  the  shores  of  the  blue  Adriatic, 

And  have  gazed  o'er  its  glistening  wavelets  to  where 

Bright  Venice  appeared  as  a  vision  ecstatic, 

A  city  suspended  twixt  ocean  and  air. 

I  have  sailed  in  my  gondola  over  its  waters 

Beneath  pallid  Luna's  transfiguring  light 

Till  the  city  seemed  built  by  the  sea  for  his  daughters 

Whose  singing  I  heard  in  the  hush  of  the  night. 

Sweet  Naples,  voluptuous  queen  of  the  South, 

Who  reclines  in  her  beauty  upon  her  green  hills, 

And  smiles  at  Vesuvius'  fiery  mouth, 

At  the  torrents  of  lava  descending  like  rills; 

And  Milan's  cathedral  so  wondrously  wrought, 


8o  Sebastian. 

The  dream  of  an  artist  embodied  in  stone, 

So  fair  that  it  seems  a  creation  of  thought, 

Nor  built  by  the  hands  of  mere  mortals  alone; 

And  Florence,  proud  monarch  of  Tuscany' s  land, 

And  Genoa  seated  o'  er-looking  the  sea, 

And  Rome,  ever  first  of  the  mighty  and  grand, 

The  ancient  of  days  —  have  been  traversed  by  me. 

I  have  wandered  through  all  with  a  heart  heavy  laden 

With  grief  and  remorse  for  the  things  of  the  past, 

With  a  trouble  which  not  all  the  pleasures  of  Aiden 

Could  make  me  forget  ere  the  judgment  day  blast. 

Yet  much  do  I  owe  to  this  land  of  the  sun, 

But  mostly,  my  noble  friend  Felix,  to  thee; 

Ye  have  saved  me  from  madness,  whose  work  was 

begun, 

And  which  would  have  left  me  a  wreck  on  life's  sea. 
When  first  from  that  horrible  trance  I  awoke, 
Overwhelmed  by  my  sorrow,  my  reason  I  cursed; 
Oblivion  in  madness  I  fain  would  invoke, 
Nor  look  on  the  woes  of  the  future  I  durst. 
But  now  I  am  calmer  and  stronger  of  soul, 
And  I  thank  thee,  good  Felix,  for  what  thou  hast  done, 
Though  naught  for  the  things  of  the  past  can  console, 
And  the  woof  of  my  life  all  of  black  I  have  spun. 
Most  bitterly,  friend,  do  I  crave  expiation 
For  the  sins  which  so  heavily  weigh  on  my  heart; 
The  joy  of  this  land  to  my  soul's  desolation 
A  mockery  seems,  and  for  home  I  depart. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  81 

FELIX. 

Thy  purpose  is  noble  and  worthy,  my  friend, 
But  still  with  regret  I  should  see  thee  set  forth 
Thus  burdened  with  grief  for  the  sorrowful  north. 
Through  this  land  of  the  olive  and  vine  let  us  wend 
Our  way  for  a  while.     There  are  marvelous  things 
To  whose  recollection  the  memory  clings, 
There  are  wonders  of  beauty,  of  grandeur  and  gloom 
That    will    haunt   thee  in  dreams  till  thou  sleepst  in 

the  tomb. 

They  wait  for  us  yet  in  this  land  of  the  sun, 
The  search  for  whose  charms  we  have  scarcely  begun. 
Each  hamlet  secluded  among  the  blue  hills, 
Where  water  is  purling  in  crystaline  rills, 
Each  village  high-perched  on  the  verdure-clad  steep 
Or  gazing  out  over  the  amethyst  deep, 
Hath  something  of  beauty  delighting  the  eye, 
Some  belfry  uplifting  its  form  to  the  sky, 
Some  statue  a  world-famous  sculptor  hath  wrought, 
Some  canvas  where  gloweth  a  heavenly  thought, 
A  church  where  some  vision  of  beauty  is  shrined, 
And  the  worships  of  art  and  of  God  are  combined. 
And  landscapes  it  offers  as  restful  and  fair 
As  those  that  were  painted  by  Claude's  magic  hand, 
Where  the  peace  of  the  gods  seem  to  gladden  the  land, 
And  the  songs  of  the  Muses  to  float  on  the  air. 
Oh,  come  my  Sebastian,  and  let  us  explore 
These  regions  so  famous  in  classical  lore. 


82  Sebastian. 

From  Como  to  ruined  Tarentum  we'll  wander, 
And  over  the  wrecks  of  its  greatness  will  ponder. 
Campagna's  green  fields  on  which  buffaloes  browse 
Where  oppulent  cities  once  stood  in  their  pride; 
Abbruzzi's  wild  paths  where  our  footsteps  arouse 
The  eagles  that  scream  on  the  mountain's  steep  side; 
The  shore  of  the  ocean,  where  Circe  once  dwelt, 
And  left  to  her  daughters  a  part  of  her  charms, 
The  full  rounded  bosom  and  tapering  arms, 
The  witchery  even  Odysseus  felt  — 
Through  all  we  will  stroll  from  the  north  to  the  south, 
From  the  region  of  snow  to  the  region  of  drouth, 
Enjoying  the  marvels  before  us  unrolled. 
Then  Sicily  lures  with  her  temples  of  old 
The  white  of  whose  stones  is  now  melted  to  gold, 
With  her  delicate  art  which  the  Saracens  taught, 
And  her  plains  where  the  Romans  with  Carthage  once 

fought 

For  the  world's  domination,  and  Etna's  proud  crest 
Where  we  hear  the  fierce  groans  of  the  earth's  tortured 

breast. 

All  beckon  us  onward.     Come,  friend,  let  us  go, 
This  land  on  thy  spirit  its  calm  will  bestow. 
When  its  rest  and  its  peace  on  thy  soul  have  descended 
Thou  canst  to  the  home  of  thy  childhood  return. 

SEBASTIAN. 

No,  Felix,  e'en  here  have  my  journeyings  ended, 
For  the  home  of  my  fathers  my  bosom  doth  yearn. 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  83 

No  more  in  this  land  of  all  gladness  I  linger, 
It  suits  not  the  gloom  that  envelopes  my  heart. 
Last  night  as  I  slept,  in  a  vision  God's  finger 
Appeared,  sternly  pointing,  and  bade  me  depart. 
I  awoke  and  perceived  that  my  soul's  absolution 
For  the  sins  of  the  past  I  should  never  receive 
Till  I  turned  to  my  duty  with  fixed  resolution 
To  lessen  the  number  of  mortals  who  grieve. 
I  would  that  the  cross  on  my  shoulder  attaching 
I  might  seek  with  Crusaders  the  Saracen  shore, 
My  sword  'gainst  the  infidel's  scimitar  matching, 
And  expiate  all  in  a  torrent  of  gore. 
I  would  that  I  might  as  an  anchorite  sainted 
Go  dwell  in  the  desert  in  fasting  and  prayer, 
Devoted  to  Him  who  with  grief  was  acquainted, 
And  lashing  my  flesh  in  my  frantic  despair. 
But  harder  the  task  that  confronts  us  at  present, 
To  live  in  the  world  and  to  act  as  we  should, 
Discharging  our  duties  however  unpleasant, 
Determined  toward  all  to  be  helpful  and  good. 
So  fearfully  dashed  on  the  reefs  of  life's  ocean, 
In  the  harbor  of  death  I  would  moulder  away, 
No  longer  disturbed  by  its  fevered  commotion, 
Untossed  by  its  billows,  undrenched  by  its  spray. 
But  though  for  the  peace  of  the  grave  I  am  yearning, 
And  gladly  would  lay  me  to  sleep  in  the  tomb, 
Yet  now  to  the  land  of  my  fathers  returning, 
My  place  in  the  world  I  shall  sadly  resume. 


84  Sebastian. 

And  there  in  the  rigid  performance  of  .duty 
I  shall  look  for  repose  to  my  desolate  heart, 
Which  vainly  seeks  comfort  in  Italy's  beauty, 
The  blue  of  her  skies  and  her  marvels  of  art. 

FELIX. 

Then  go,  my  Sebastian,  I  would  not  delay  thee, 
Thou  hast  found  the  true  balm  for  the  wound  in  thy 

breast. 

For  the  good  that  thou  doest  may  heaven  repay  thee 
By  filling  thy  soul  with  the  peace  of  the  blest. 


SCENE  XI. 

The  Cathedral  where  Sebastian' s  Father  and  Lalage 
are  buried. 

Enter  Sebastian. 

SEBASTIAN.  (Approaching  Lalage' s grave.} 

I  come,  my  love,  in  agony  to  lay 
This  wreath  upon  thy  long  neglected  tomb. 
Oh,  why  shouldst  thou  for  my  offending  pay, 
Thus  stricken  down  in  all  thy  beauty's  bloom  ? 
I  would  that  I  might  lay  me  down  instead 
Where  thou  dost  slumber  there  beneath  the  sod. 
Why  did  I  not  precede  thee  to  the  dead, 
And  for  my  guilt  to  thee  respond  to  God  ? 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  85 

For  love  of  me  thou  hast  been  doomed  to  death, 

And  I  have  seen  it,  yet  I  have  not  died. 

I  was  not  there  to  cheer  thy  dying  breath, 

Nor  have  I  followed  thee,  my  angel  bride. 

Thy  soul,  I  know,  doth  wander  through  the  blue, 

Waiting  for  mine  to  join  it  in  the  sky: 

In  mine  own  blood  this  hand  I  would  imbue 

And  fly  to  meet  thy  spirit  there  on  high. 

But,  oh,  I  feel  to  thy  celestial  sphere 

I  can  not  mount  with  my  sin-laden  soul, 

And  that  I  must  in  anguish  linger  here 

Till  less  unworthy  of  that  heavenly  goal. 

Oh,  sweetest  Lalage  thou  wert  my  all, 

My  heaven  on  earth,  my  first,  my  only  love. 

And  art  thou  gone  forever  ?     Hear  my  call, 

Have  pity  on  my  grief,  though  throned  above. 

In  life  thou  wert  the  empress  of  my  heart, 

In  death  thou  art  the  lodestar  of  my  hope; 

The  bliss  of  paradise  thou  didst  impart, 

Its  pearly  gates  thy  soul  to  mine  will  ope. 

Not  that  I  merit  there  with  thee  to  dwell, 

But  thou,  I  know,  wilt  intercede  for  me. 

I  could  not  drag  thy  spirit  down  to  hell, 

But  thou,  sweet  love,  canst  draw  me  up  to  thee. 

And  thou  wilt  do  it,  for  to  mine  thy  soul 

Is  linked  by  an  indissoluble  bond, 

Which  hath  united  us  in  earthly  dole, 

And  will  unite  us  in  the  veiled  beyond, 


86  Sebastian. 

Thou  wert  by  God  to  mortals  lent  awhile 
To  teach  the  beauty  of  the  heavenly  choir, 
The  sweet  enchantment  of  the  perfect  smile, 
The  tender  glance  that  sets  the  soul  on  fire. 
To  teach  them  how  the  heavenly  throng  excel 
All  found  below  in  loveliness  and  worth, 
To  show  them  charms  they  could  not  else  foretell, 
And  wean  them  from  the  baser  things  of  earth. 
Oh,  Lalage,  my  bride,  I  bend  me  here 
In  agony  of  grief  above  thy  grave, 
Upon  the  marble  shed  the  scalding  tear, 
And  bowed  by  woe  thy  pardon  humbly  crave. 

And  now,  my  father,  unto  thee  I  turn, 

And  lay  this  wreath  upon  thy  honored  tomb. 

Oh,  father,  how  my  tortured  heart  doth  yearn 

The  old  sweet  converse  with  thee  to  resume. 

Unworthy  thy  example  was  the  life 

I  led  in  headstrong  and  unstable  youth, 

In  careless  revel  or  ignoble  strife, 

While  scarcely  heeded  was  thy  lessons'  truth. 

But  now,  my  father,  doth  my  stricken  soul 

Recall  with  joy  thy  wisdom's  sligthest  word, 

Which  still  avails  to  strengthen  and  console, 

So  priceless  now,  so  little  prized  when  heard. 

The  teachings  that  upon  me  then  seemed  lost 

Now  wake  to  life  within  my  tortured  breast; 

Upon  the  sea  of  life  by  passion  tossed, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  87 

I  turn  to  thee  for  counsel  and  for  rest. 

Thou  who  in  calmness  and  in  wisdom  soared 

Above  the  frailties  of  my  weaker  heart, 

Thy  mighty  mind  with  deepest  knowledge  stored, 

A  little  of  thy  loftiness  impart. 

Teach  me  thy  justice  and  thy  self-control, 

Thy  resolution  to  be  good  and  great, 

Thy  changeless  magnanimity  of  soul, 

Thy  constancy  beneath  the  blows  of  fate. 

Teach  me  life's  burden  so  to  bear  that  when 

Upon  the  further  shore  of  time  we  meet, 

Thou  mayst  not  blush  to  look  on  me  again, 

But  mayst  a  son  not  all  unworthy  greet. 

Enter  Priest. 
PRIEST. 

My  son,  I  am  rejoiced  to  see 
Thou  art  returned,  and  most  to  find 
That  first  thou  hast  betaken  thee 
To  where  God's  worship  is  enshrined. 
Rarely  in  times  gone  by  didst  thou 
The  knee  in  church  or  chapel  bow, 
And  much  it  pleases  me  that  now 
To  holier  ways  thou  seemst  inclined. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Returning  from  my  long  exile 
I  first  have  sought  the  blessed  dead, 
Reposing  'neath  this  sacred  pile, 


88  Sebastian. 

The  two  bright  stars  whose  life  was  shed 
Upon  my  path  —  the  one  my  sire, 
Of  whom  I  need  not  boast  the  worth, 
And  who  hath  trained  me  from  my  birth 
In  virtue's  ways,  though  oft  I've  strayed, 
And  that  sweet  beam  of  heavenly  fire, 
That  emanation  from  above 
Who  taught  me  all  the  bliss  of  love  — 
I've  come  to  weep  where  they  are  laid. 

PRIEST. 

Thy  filial  piety,  my  son, 
Deserves  the  highest  praise,  and  I 
Commend  thy  grief  for  loss  of  one 
In  worth  so  great,  in  blood  so  nigh. 
But  it  afflicts  me  to  perceive 
That  this  unholy  love  of  thine, 
Like  poison  vipers,  still  doth  twine 
About  thy  soul. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Thou  needst  not  grieve. 
That  love  in  paradise  was  born, 
And  if  in  death  all  is  not  ended 
(Though  oft  I  doubt 

If  life  is  not  a  flame  that  death  blows  out, 
A  flickering  spark 
That  gleams  awhile,  to  vanish  in  the  dark) 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  89 

Then  on  the  resurection  morn 
Her  arms  to  me  will  be  extended, 
Striving  to  lift  me  up  to  where 
In  heaven  she  stands,  supremely  fair. 

PRIEST. 

Oh,  speak  not  thus,  full  well  thou  knowest 
How  great  the  sin  to  lead  astray 
Another's  wife.     The  seed  thou  so  west, 
In  anguish  wilt  thou  reap  that  day 
Unless  a  true  repentance  win 
Remission  of  thy  grievous  sin. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Is  love  a  sin  ?     The  holiest  feeling 
The  heart  of  man  can  know,  revealing 
The  joys  of  paradise  above. 

How  is' t  a  sin  when  God  is  love  ? 

-• 

PRIEST. 

My  son,  'tis  not  such  love  as  thine 
That  dwelleth  in  the  breast  divine. 
Adulterate  passion  only  draws 
Man  down  to  Hell's  expanded  jaws. 
Open  old  Dante's  book  and  read 
Francesca's  wail,  and  thence  take  heed. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Francesca  is  not  Lalage. 
My  sainted  Beatrice  she'll  be, 


90  Sebastian. 

My  grosser  spirit  upward  lifting, 

To  where  on  clouds  of  purple  drifting, 

The  heavenly  chorus  float  and  sing. 

That  Beatrice  to  whom  we  cling 

As  purity  personified, 

She  was  another's  lawful  bride. 

All  love  is  holy;  great  my  guilt 

In  yielding  to  it  if  thou  wilt, 

But  now  by  death  'tis  sanctified, 

PRIEST. 

No,  no,  my  son,  thy  guilty  passion 
Do  not  defend  in  guiltier  fashion. 
The  urgent  need  dost  thou  not  feel 
To  expiate  the  ruin  brought 
Upon  her  house,  the  havoc  wrought 
By  thy  mad  folly  ?     Let  us  kneel 
Here  at  God's  altar  and  implore 
Forgivness  for  thy  sins  of  yore. 

SEBASTIAN. 

Most  gladly,  father,  would  I  pray  with  thee, 
Could  I  believe  that  God  would  answer  me. 
That  child-like  faith  has  vanished  from  my  heart, 
And  Doubt  sits  there,  nor  will  it  thence  depart. 
Its  sits  enthroned  within  my  troubled  breast, 
And  rocketh  to  and  fro,  nor  will  it  rest. 
But  bitterly,  my  father,  do  I  yearn 
For  expiation  —  expiation  stern; 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  91 

I  long  to  feel  the  scorpion  scourge 

Of  torture  from  my  bosom  purge 

My  sin,  so  that,  all  worn  and  broken, 

Shattered  by  pains  no  tongue  hath  spoken, 

With  guiltless  soul  I  may  emerge 

As  when  I  played,  a  little  child, 

And  kissed  my  mother  as  she  smiled. 

I  would  with  fierce  crusading  bands 

Invade  the  burning  Paynim  lands, 

And  shed  my  blood  on  parching  sands. 

Or  else  a  hermit  I  would  be 

Beside  some  stormy  northern  sea, 

And  feed  like  beasts  upon  the  roots 

I'd  gather  there  and  bitter  fruits, 

Praying  for  death  to  set  me  free 

From  life's  enduring  agony. 

And  if  I  could  believe  that  so, 

In  living  like  the  olden  saints, 

1  could  wash  off  the  guilt  that  taints 

My  soul,  I  forth  would  gladly  go. 

•  . 

PRIEST. 

My  son,  those  saints  obtained  remission 
Of  sin,  who  fasted,  wept  and  prayed, 
Lashing  their  backs  in  deep  contrition, 
God's  mercy  seeking  and  His  aid. 
Penance  is  holy,  and  the  yearning 
So  fiercely  in  thy  bosom  burning 


92  Sebastian. 

God  plants  to  teach  thee  how  to  win 
Forgiveness  for  thy  grievous  sin. 

SEBASTIAN. 

I  would,  my  father,  I  might  share 
Thy  faith,  but  that  long  since  is  past. 
How  gladly  would  I  pray  and  fast 
Could  I  believe  forgiveness  there. 
No,  not  in  useless  penance  shall  I  find 
The  balm  for  my  distracted  mind. 
If  right  the  voice  of  conscience  speaks, 
'Tis  not  the  selfish  saint  who  seeks 
Alone  his  own  salvation  who 
The  path  of  duty  doth  pursue. 
Not  through  the  desert  doth  it  lie, 
But  through  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 
Where  we  must  walk  with  pitying  eye, 
Prepared  to  lend  assistance  when 
We  hear  the  voice  of  sorrow  call. 
Not  in  the  shade  of  cloister  wall, 
Trying  to  save  our  souls  alone 
For  errors  past  do  we  atone. 
'Tis  in  the  tumult  and  the  strife, 
The  agony  of  human  life, 
Doing  our  duty  unto  all, 
Fighting  the  battles  of  the  weak, 
Wiping  the  tear  from  Sorrow's  cheek, 
Warring  for  right  against  the  wrong, 


A  Dramatic  Poem.  93 

'  Tis  thus  we  should  our  pardon  seek. 

Such  was  the  life  my  father  led, 

And  in  his  steps  I'll  feebly  tread. 

And  here  between  the  honored  dead, 

The  one  so  fair,  the  one  so  strong  — 

The  one  who  beckons  me  to  heaven, 

Who  heaven's  own  bliss  to  me  has  given, 

The  other  who  has  shown  me  where 

The  path  of  human  duty  leads  — 

Even  here  I  dedicate  my  life 

To  comforting  the  heart  that  bleeds, 

To  raising  souls  from  their  despair, 

To  duty's  path  of  pain  and  strife. 

The  way  is  long,  but  when  I  falter 

I'll  turn  to  those  who  slumber  here, 

And  kneeling  as  beside  an  altar, 

Fresh  strength  I'll  find  my  heart  to  cheer. 

PRIEST. 

My  son,  I  mourn  thy  want  of  faith, 
But  follow  on  in  Virtue's  path, 
And  God  the  phials  of  His  wrath 
May  still  withhold,  and  ere  thy  death 
Thou  mayst  His  blessed  mercy  feel, 
And  at  His  shrine  repentant  kneel. 
Then  will  the  peace  no  tongue  can  tell 
Abide  with  thee.     My  son,  farewell. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
BERKELEY 


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